!l 



SEA-TRACKS OF 
THE SPEEJACKS 

ROUND THE WORLD 

BY 

DALE COLLINS 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION 

BY 

JEANNE BOUCHET GOWEN 




MANY ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 



GARDEN CITY 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE 

1923 



& 



NEW YORK 

COMPANY 



HiH 



^^ 



^'l^' 



COPTRIGHT, 1923, BY 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPAKY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRAXSLATION" 

IXTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPTBIGHT, IQ23, BY THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS CO. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 

AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 

SEP -I 1923 

©C1A752749 



CONTENTS 

The Log of the Speejacks— from New York to Australia — 
by Jeanne Bouchet Gowen ... xi 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. HoRS d'Oeuvre 1 

II. Across the Wide Pacific .... 12 

III. Garlanded Islands, Blackfellows, 

AND A Beachcomber 26 

IV. Papua's Ports and People .... 48 

V. Mad Drums of the Dark Island . 64 

VI. Isles in a Living Sea, and a Lost 

Barque 81 

VII. A "Wet" Town and the Island Called 
"The Beautiful Lady with the 
Poisoned Lips'' 100 

VIII. A Race from the Port-of-Dreams-for- 

Sale to the Orient 117 

IX. The Sultan Who Died and Hurrying 

Waters 135 

X. Winsome Dancers Before Goggling 

Gods 153 

V 



vi CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XL Colliding with a Junk and Climbing 

A Volcano 170 

XII. Through the Green Heart of Java. 181 

XIII. A Glance Astern and a Sailorman's 

Jewelled Girl 200 

XIV. Nights with Chinese Millionaires 

AND An Unserene Sultan . . . 217 

XV. Odd Ports and Across an Ocean. . 242 

XVI. Mediterranean Days, a Bullfight, 

AND THE Last Ocean 261 

XVII. Home Again ,279 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
The Speejacks Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

Mr. and Mrs. A. Y. Gowen 8 

The Speejacks in mid-ocean 9 

The "mal de mer" wedding 16 

Hat makers of Bora Bora 17 

A company of **Hula Hula" dancers 24 

Apia, British Samoa 25 

Samoan natives near Apia 32 

Dance of the Samoans 33 

Natives of American Samoa 40 

Captain Evans, governor of American Samoa .... 41 

Baseball at Pago Pago 48 

Fijian fish traps 49 

Rata (Chief) Epeli, and Speejacks guests 56 

Firewalkers of Fiji 57 

Club dance of Fijian warriors . 64 

A fan dance, Fiji Islands 65 

Kingfish, caught off Tahiti 72 

Ingraham, Rogers, Collins, and Australian bushmen . . 73 

Mr. and Mrs. E. N. Banfield 80 

The scramble for tobacco, Hood Inlet, New Guinea . . 81 

AustraUan bushmen, "decorated" 88 

New Guinea tribesmen in a war canoe 88 

The making of a New Guinea dugout canoe .... 89 

New Guinea head-hunters 96 

vii 



viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING PAGE 

A shave in New Guinea 97 

Native orchestra, Admiralty Islands 104 

A war canoe, Solomon Islands 105 

Native police at Faisi, Solomon Islands 112 

Main Street in a Trobriand village 113 

A stone mansion at Maron Island 120 

The Dutch club at Amboina 121 

The Island of Bouton 128 

An outrigger ferry at Bouton 129 

Parrots for sale at Bouton 136 

Coffee traffic, Makassar, Celebes Island 137 

A waterside village near Makassar 144 

Ox-cart traffic, Makassar 145 

A **campong" in Bali, Java 148 

A mud-walled village in Bali 149 

Water carriers of Bali 152 

Buleleng, Island of Bali 153 

Dancers and goggling gods — Bali 160 

Mr. Gowen, with Balinese dancing girls 161 

A dancer at Bali 164 

A picturesque by-way of Bali 165 

Strolling musicians, Bali 165 

Itinerant performers, Bali 165 

Cock-fighting in Bali 168 

A native worker of the rice fields, Bali 169 

The temple of Boro-Budur, Djokja, Java 176 

Stone carving, temple of Boro-Budur 177 

Making batik, Java 180 

A Javanese woman dying batik fabric 181 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix 



FACING PAGE 



Tan Kong Tien and his wife, of Tjokja, Java .... 184 

Rice fields, Java 185 

"Tahiti Louis" and his painting 192 

Home of governor of Beitenzorg, Java 193 

A bit of the waterfront, Singapore 196 

Native traffic on Singapore waterfront 197 

At the docks in Singapore 200 

Mrs. Lee Choon Guan, of Singapore 201 

Kuala Lumpur, Federated Malay States 208 

The railway station at Kuala Lumpur 209 

Hotel Brastagi, Sumatra 212 

Sugar plantation near Deli-Medan, Sumatra .... 213 

A street in Sabang, Sumatra 213 

Street scene, Seychelles Islands 213 

A native belle, Seychelles Islands 216 

Street scene, Mahe, Seychelles Islands 217 

Rickshaw riding, Seychelles Islands 224 

"Aden, sizzling in the sun" 225 

The lower city of Aden 228 

An aqueduct at "Crater Town," Aden 229 

Tanks in the water system of Aden 232 

Ancient Tawalla tank, Aden 233 

Native crowd, "Crater Town," Aden 240 

"The curb market," Aden 241 

Noon hour in streets of Aden 244 

Firewood from the desert, Aden 245 

Street vendor, Alexandria, Egypt 248 

The housetops of old Cairo 249 

Egyptian soda fountain, Cairo 256 



X LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING PAGE 

An Egyptian colony under the Pyramids 257 

Mr. Rogers and a native Egyptian 260 

A narrow old street of Cairo 261 

Ornate interior, Mohammed Ali's Mosque, Cairo . . 261 

Another interior view of Mohammed Ali's Mosque . . 261 

Ruins of old Mosque, Cairo 264 

A street in the outskirts of Cairo 265 

Mrs. Gowen on a "desert taxi" 272 

On the sands of the Sahara 273 

Entrance to arena at Barcelona 276 

The bull fight at Barcelona 277 



The Log of the Spee jacks 

From New York to Australia 

BY 

JEANNE BOUCHET GOWEN 

I must go down to the seas again, 
To the lonely sea and the sky. 
And all that I ask is a tall gray ship 
And a star to steer her by. 

Masefield. 

Well enough do I remember when those words had 
the power to thrill me. The anticipated, romantic pic- 
ture which arose in my mind at the very thought of 
guiding our own little boat through uncharted seas to 
the music of phosphorescent waters! 

I could visualize the glories of flying fish; the por- 
poises running races with us, leaping out of the water, 
laughing at us in the way porpoises have. I could 
almost sense the fascination of the ocean's hidden em- 
pire. 

I could think, and did, of the long days at sea; sunny, 
quiet, dreamy, pleasant days, when we would steadily 
glide along the wide and charming Pacific through 
tropic islands, along coral reefs. There would be so 
many days, so I thought, as I imagined out the whole 
thing in advance, which could be devoted to pleasant 
and improving pastimes — reading, writing, sewing. 

Now the very thought of it makes me choke! 



xii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

All that I long for is a fireplace, perfectly station- 
ary scenery, a bathtub that remains level, food on dishes 
that stay put — and nice, dry clothes! 

From an educational standpoint the trip was un- 
questionably wonderful. We saw things that are 
almost completely unknown, except to a very few ven- 
turesome persons — things that were beyond the realms 
of the ordinary imagination, things that certainly were 
beyond my own fancies. 

You see, there is always an ocean swell. Our boat, 
the good little Speejacks, was like a cork in a bathtub, 
and we were in the cork — bobbing up and down, back- 
ward, forward. In fact, it was on the occasion of the 
calmest of all calm seas we met with that my steamer 
chair upset most gracefully and most disconcertingly, 
depositing me plump on the deck. That fall left a 
scar on my left arm which I will wear through this life. 

We soon learned to chain everything down, even 
ourselves. The only part steamer chairs ever played 
in our lives was when we were in port. We would un- 
chain them then, give them a little airing — and take a 
chance of sitting on them. 

For days, and even weeks, we were obliged to take 
our meals on deck, consuming them — not eating in the 
strict sense of that word — on the wing as it were. Keep- 
ing anything on a table, even the varnish, was utterly 
impossible. Our most active pastime came at meals; 
it was called "the pursuit of a bean." You get a lot of 
amusement and exercise — until it gets monotonous — 
chasing your food that way. Many times our poor 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xiii 

cook was tried beyond all human endurance by having 
all the food roll off the stove at once, just as it was 
ready to be served. 

I was the only woman on board the Speejacks. There 
were times when it was wisest for me to be absolutely 
deaf. When the food was lost from the cook's galley 
was one of those occasions. He finally invented a little 
system all his own for preventing trouble, possibly be- 
cause he ran out of things to call the ocean. Every- 
thing he put on the stove was guided and secured by 
ropes. They could slide and glide and fall — but only 
to the limits of their ropes! 

Lest you believe that I am ungrateful for all of the 
experiences I have had, it must be admitted that there 
are many experiences on the credit side of the book that 
stand out in memory — first visions of the wonder isles 
of the South Seas, more wonderful than fancy had pic- 
tured them; our trip into the interior of Fiji, under the 
guidance of a native prince, a man of remarkable cul- 
ture and charm, where white persons were as scarce as 
ice skates. There were kangaroo hunts in Australia; 
there were New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, some of 
the few really unexplored, uncivilized lands left on the 
globe. The lands of cannibals, the head hunters — 
lands and hidden islets of ethereal and majestic and 
awful beauties. 

There was Java, one of the real garden spots of the 
world. There was Bah, the island of beautiful women. 
Never heard of it that way? Neither had we, but we 
know it now, and have some photos to support the con- 



xiv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

tention. There was Ceylon, India, Arabia, Egypt, 
Greece, Italy, France, Spain — all, all bring memories in 
their wake, memories that are pleasant and happy, te- 
nacious memories of things unusual, barbaric, weird, 
unbelievable, impossible. I can still hear the chilling- 
warming music of the midnight tom-toms, the low 
chants of the women at a "meke-meke." Bronze shin- 
ing figures, clothed with leaves and tree bark, dance 
through my dreams, yes, pleasant dreams they are. 
They writhe in their terrible native dances and I can 
hear their unreal cries. There comes the staccato yelp 
of a war cry. The plumes of paradise birds wave in 
impossible moonlight, poisoned darts fly — and there^s 
an exotic, barbarous million-year-ago feel about it all. 

They are all confused impressions — the smell, the 
sights, the chills and thrills and dreads and the fears and 
joys. I am trying to clothe them in words. 

For a year before we left on the trip we had made 
plans. The boat we actually went around the world 
in was the fifth Speejacks, The name was derived from 
a nickname Mr. Gowen had at Harvard. We did not 
build this boat especially for an around-the-world tour. 
It was after the boat was almost completed that we 
definitely decided to go. And then many changes had 
to be made. All of our pretty mahogany lockers and 
chests of drawers had to be replaced with red cedar 
to guard against mildew and moth. And — but hold! 

Did I say that changes had to be made? The mem- 
ory of them is something of a nightmare — quite apart 
from the terrific cost of them. From the profundity 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xv 

of knowledge of persons who had "been there," we 
learned many things. Item, the boat must be lined 
on bottom with copper, else the toredo worm would eat 
into it after the manner of mice nibbling at cheese! 
(Business of frantically ordering a copper bottom 
lining.) Item, we must discard a gem of a tiny motor 
boat and an equally tiny sail boat for purposes of land- 
ing which we had installed on the SpeejackSy for these 
would be useless: the only practical thing was a flat- 
bottomed fisherman's dory. Item, did we have machine 
guns for protection against possible attack by pirates 
or native savages? Of course we hadn't; and of course 
we had to install them, else be guilty of rashly endanger- 
ing the lives of the whole party. Our wireless outfit 
was not of sufficient radius, we were informed, to pick 
up warnings by various governments to mariners on the 
high seas: and so it was taken out and a suitable one 
installed. We were informed that if we wished to 
preserve our motion pictures we should have to install 
a special compartment that would keep the film at a 
temperature not above 65 degrees Fahrenheit. We 
had to discard all our beautiful rugs and blankets in 
favour of matting and special woollen blankets that 
were impervious to mildew. The canvas awning on 
deck for protection against the tropical sun had to be 
taken down and shipped to Providence, R. I., to be given 
a treatment that would render it immune to mildew. 
And, incidentally, on the advice (or rather warning!) 
of One Who Knew, we installed two such coverings. 
By the advice of the same kind friend we had our 



xvi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

lockers re-lined with red cedar in place of their white 
pine linings — this also being demanded as a protection 
for our clothing against moths and mildew. We ex- 
pected, in all guilelessness, to be able to purchase things 
in remote islands with the currency of the particular 
nation which governed them. For this purpose a 
fair amount of currency of all the nations was accumu- 
lated. Before starting, however, we were given a 
primary lesson on the worthlessness of money per se. 
As a result of this essay in economics we were persuaded 
to lay in a store of trade tobacco for purposes of barter. 
And so forth. I say "we" had to do all these things — 
and of course you have rightly guessed that I mean Mr. 
Gowen. 

And as if that were not enough for Atlas himself to 
shoulder, Mr. Gowen had to become — a medico, no 
less! Had it occurred to Mr. Gowen, in all the febrile 
activity of these preparations, the risk he was running 
in taking a party of ten persons on a trip lasting sixteen 
months, during most of which we would be out of touch 
with civilization — had the risk of not taking a doctor 
along occurred to him? Most decidedly it had not! 
And so he proceeded to acquire the rudiments of an 
acquaintance with the science of materia medica! For 
this purpose he procured, and perused, three or four of 
the best volumes he could find on the elusive art of 
getting and keeping well. And as a tribute to his med- 
ical omniscience, be it recorded that most of the ills 
that flesh was heir to on the trip were cured (or in any 
event, at least treated!) with castor oil! 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xvii 

How did we come to make the trip? We really 
talked ourselves into it. Both Mr. Gowen and I have 
always been very fond of the water. Mr. Gowen was 
rather tired out, the result of years of hard work. He 
wanted a long vacation away from business cares. 

"Take a trip around the world!" his physician ad- 
vised. 

That was when we began to think about it. Every 
one with whom we talked it over thought it was a won- 
derful idea — ^go around the world in our own boat. 
Their heartily expressed envy just helped convince us 
that we should go ahead and do it. The more we 
thought about it the more we were envied, the more we 
talked about it the more practical and possible it seemed. 
We would be modern Columbuses, seeking new worlds 
in our Speejacks. It was not until the week before we 
got under way that we began to realize how much in- 
terest our contemplated trip was arousing. We often 
wondered why others had never done it, but this, alas, 
we have ceased to wonder about. We know now. 

Jamaica and Panama 

The impression may have been gained that my dislike 
of the idea of a trip around the world in our ninety- 
eight-foot power boat includes the whole thing and 
everybody with us on that memorable voyage. If so, 
the idea should be corrected now. My whole distaste 
centres upon one thing — the schedule. 

To go around the world, on big steamers or little, 
by camel back, by donkey, by automobile, by steam 



xviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

train, or in a boat the size of our own SpeejackSy is a 
pleasant thing, a wonderfully educating, broadening 
experience. I would do it again and again — ^gladly. 
But — and please mark this, any one who is contemplat- 
ing such a tour of the world — it would not be on a 
schedule again — never! 

No twenty-hour railroad train running between 
Chicago and New York ever operated on a closer, 
harsher schedule than did we. Our connections at 
home and in various civilized ports where we called 
had our complete itinerary. 

They knew where we were due to be on certain 
marked days on the calendar. If we failed to appear 
at certain ports within a reasonable period of time an 
alarm would be raised, and the wireless of the world 
would search for us. That accounts for the two times 
we were reported "lost." 

We were never lost. We were just in the ocean, or 
rather on it, bobbing along on our way in the Speejacks, 
a boat that appeared pretty big alongside of the pleasure- 
sailing craft of the seaboard or the Great Lakes, but 
seemed to grow smaller and smaller as we moved along 
into the great limitless Pacific Ocean; shrinking, con- 
tracting within itself, until it seemed to our imaginations 
that it would just squeeze into nothing with us inside 
of it. 

We left New York on August 21, 192L The first 
objective, after leaving New York behind, was Tahiti, 
by way of Miami and Jamaica, and through the Panama 
Canal. The first stops were made more for supplies — 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xix 

gasoline especially — than for any other reason. We 
were anxious to get into the Pacific. 

We all took watches — that is, Mr. Rogers, Mr. In- 
graham, Mr. Gowen, and myself, took our trick at 
the wheel — ^primarily to give us some exercise, some- 
thing to do; furthermore, because our crew was not large 
enough without some assistance from us. Mr. Gowen 
was nominally in charge. We always had a professional 
captain-navigator. The rest of us acted as mates. 
We never did decide who was the ranking mate, so the 
four of us equally claimed the title of first mate. It 
didn't make any difference, anyhow, so the skipper let 
it go at that. 

I did not always take a night watch. The rest of 
the officer staff was often kind enough to give me my 
two-hour watch in the daylight. I have had the 
sneaking idea that it was not 100 per cent, kindness; 
that maybe they thought I could steer better in day- 
light than in the black midnight; that they could sleep 
more securely with someone else at the wheel. 

Possibly that's an injustice. For the first day out 
we were as eager as a boatload of children would have 
been. We all wanted to steer the boat. By the time 
we reached Jamaica none of us was enthusiastic about 
taking the wheel. Our interest in piloting the boat 
died an untimely death — but we couldn't give it up 
then. It was the millstone that hung on our necks for 
the rest of the trip, hung there and grew heavier. 

Jamaica and its leading city, Kingston, have had so 
much written of them that I could hardly present any- 



XX THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

thing new. We were just started on our sixteen-month 
trip, anxious to be elsewhere, out into the Pacific, 
among the coral isles. Possibly impressions of Jamaica 
did not become so indelibly impressed as did those of 
the places yet to be visited. 

Coming into the harbour of Kingston we had our 
first experience with jumping fish. The harbour was 
perfectly beautiful. Mr. Rogers wanted to take pic- 
tures and climbed up on top. Not wishing to miss 
anything I clambered up also. Mr. Gowen was gazing 
toward shore with the glasses. 

Suddenly there was a hissing sound. A large fish 
was having his exercise and it jumped clear over the 
boat and almost felled Mr. Rogers and me in its flight. 

We were all excited, never having seen such a thing 
before. The leap from the surface of the water was at 
least twelve feet high. Several times after that we 
saw fish leap out of the water for tremendous distances, 
but the personal reception given us by this one adven- 
turous kingfish in Jamaica harbour was not repeated. 

From Jamaica to Panama was the sort of rough trip 
that later became the regular thing. More of that 
travelling later. Through the canal was an absorbing 
experience, interesting. Government regulations re- 
quire all craft to go through with pilots and most of 
them seemed to be Southerners, due to the Wilson ad- 
ministration, probably. 

Through the seven locks, beginning with Gatun 
which has three immense drops, two at Pedro Miguel 
and three in Miraflores Lake, through Gaillard and 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxi 

the famous Culebra Cut, a little less than twenty-eight 
miles, took ten hours. 

We stopped a week at the city of Panama and were 
entertained by an alligator hunt. There were many 
enormous 'gators, some of them eighteen and twenty 
feet long. They would slide with startling abruptness 
from the banks into the water. We all took a few shots 
at them, but didn't land one. They are vulnerable in 
only one spot, in the centre part of the neck, on top. 

Panama is the cleanest city I have ever seen, but after 
an experience I had there I am not surprised at that. 
Cleanliness is not merely something next to godliness 

there — it is law. Dr. G , head of the public health 

service office, holds a sanitary court every morning for 
those accused of having violated some of his health and 
hygiene ordinances. 

Across the Pacific to Takaroa 

Our first entry into the Pacific was from the port of 
Balboa on September 29, 1921. We started early in 
the morning and anchored out a mile or so to load 
gasoline, etc. 

We carried only 3,000 gallons of gasohne. The dis- 
tance from Panama to Tahiti is 4,500 miles and as 
there are no gasoline filling stations in the Pacific it 
was necessary for us to be towed to within a few hundred 
miles of Tahiti. 

While we were at our anchorage, a harness was put 
about the Speejacks, to which a tow rope was attached. 
It was the most enormous rope, I believe, ever braided! 



xxii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

To this harness was attached the tow rope, passed 
aboard the steamer Eastern QueeUy which was to tow 
us. 

There was a heavy sea the morning they adjusted 
our ropes. Six of their sailors boarded the Speejacks 
to help us, and five of these six hardy seamen became 
deathly seasick. Turning to my diary for September 
30, I find this: 

Heavens, what a day! We stopped for an hour and a half. 
It was a wise precaution, because we had bounced all day. 
We have a new movement now, but it is far too jerky for a 
symphony: 1 — 2 — 3, jerk — 1 — 2 — 3, jerk. 

Every one on board looks questioningly at one another to see 
what the reaction to the jerk might be. To dwell for a moment 
on myself, I wish hereby to register a profound protest against 
towing! The protest comes from the very depth of my being 
where an internal uprising is being held. I only hope it will 
be settled before the mystic shores of Tahiti rise before us. 

Little debates are being held in all portions of the boat as to 
how many days it will take us to reach our destination. The 
most favourable estimate I have been able to gather is twenty- 
four days; the majority believe it will take a longer period. 
However, they say Heaven looks after its own; I only hope there 
is someone among us in favour. 

Continuing to quote from my diary, I find these 
notations: 

October 2. The longest and worst day I believe I ever spent. 
It turned quite cool, which is a blessing. We have all put on 
heavier clothing. Not one of us is hitting on all four to-day. 
I have eaten nothing for two days and don't feel that I will 
ever eat again. 

October 3. Still very cold, which is a most surprising thing, 
as we crossed the Equator about 6 o'clock this afternoon. It 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxiii 

has been a horrible day, rough and gruesome. We have not 
dined in the saloon for two days, and I do not imagine we will 
very often on this trip. The chairs are all strapped down and 
we sit in the pilot house and juggle our food about. 

At the start of our trip I had determined to keep 
religiously a diary every day. There is a hiatus from 
October 3 to October 20, the day before we landed at 
Tiakea, the principal village of the island of Takaroa. 
Nothing eventful had happened during this time. One 
day followed another somewhat monotonously. We 
were always in the centre of a gigantic saucer, the cir- 
cumference of which was the distant horizon, swaying 
constantly to the majestic roll of the Pacific. We did 
not even become seasick — with the exception of two 
members of the crew. And always the incessant 1- -2 — 
3 — jerk, 1 — 2 — 3 — jerk, from the Eastern Queen ahead. 
It was during this period that we were lost for the 
first time — lost in the Pacific Ocean, but we didn't 
know it. 

One night Jim Sterling, our wireless operator up to 
Tahiti, during one of my few night watches, was asked 
if he knew anything about the Speejacks, which was 
reported lost off the coast of California. 

He assured the anxious aerial inquirers that he had 
some Httle information, being in the instrument house 
of the Spec jacks at that moment. The cook happened 
to be in the pilot house — the wireless was in the same 
place — at that time and called down to Bill, the steward. 

"Bill, Bill," he cried, "come up here a moment." 

Bill went rushing up only to hear this : 



xxiv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"Bill, you are dead, but you don't know it!'* 

Regularly, regardless of weather, Mr. Gowen felt he 
must be optimistic for the sake of the morale of the 
party. So each morning he would come up beaming, 
with little remarks like this: "Well, well, calm as a mill 
pond to-day, isn't it?" As most of us were nursing 
injuries there was no hearty response to this and we 
finally renamed the Pacific, "Gowen's mill pond." 

We were twenty-two days out of sight of land and 
the day we cast off from the Eastern Queen was a happy 
one for us. We were very nearly out of fresh water. 

Being a woman has some slight advantage after all. 
I was given two quarts of fresh water every day to 
bathe in and for drinking. The others had about a 
glass a day. 

All of us were so tired that we decided to stop at 
Takaroa instead of pushing on immediately to Tahiti. 
We never regretted having done so. We landed there 
at 7 A. M., but land was sighted at 5:22 in the morning, 
which was a signal for all of us to rise. We were all in a 
palpitating state of excitement. 

We anchored off a trading boat a little larger than the 
Speejacks. The captain of this boat was one of the 
most interesting men we met on the entire trip. He 
was a handsome man of about fifty, three fourths 
English and one fourth Tahitian. His father had been 
a very wealthy Englishman who had married a half- 
caste. He was the only man on the island who spoke 
English. 

We had not been anchored ten minutes when there 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxv 

were swarms of people — men, women, and children of 
all ages — who had come to see us. They were quite 
different from any people we had any of us ever seen 
before, more bronze in colour than anything else. 

The women all had long black hair worn in braids 
and wore pareus, about a yard of gayly coloured ma- 
terial wrapped about them. The only boat any of them 
had ever seen was a trading vessel that comes there 
once or twice a year. One man on the island had been 
once to Papeete. That was a number of years ago, 
but the trip was still fresh in his mind. 

We were officially invited by the chief of the island 
to a reception they were to give us in the afternoon. 

Captain B , the commander of the boat to which 

we were anchored, interpreted for us. In the afternoon 
we went ashore and found everything decorated for the 
festive occasion. Three chairs, the total number on 
the island, were gayly ornamented with tiari blossoms, 
jasmine, and laurel wreaths. 

Every man, woman, and child — as well as all the 
dogs, pigs, and chickens — were gathered together, sit- 
ting in a circle. The man who had been to Papeete 
was dressed in white trousers and leaves. The rest of 
them wore pareus. We sat in our chairs, as many of 
us as had them. The rest sat on the ground. 

We beamed on them and they beamed on us, but 
nothing seemed to happen. 

Finally the man who had been to Papeete rose and 
made a lot of gestures and did a lot of talking that 
seemed to appeal to his companions, for they laughed 



xxvi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

uproariously; whereupon Mr. Gowen also rose and did 
a lot of talking. 

There was a dead silence except for the barking of 
dogs, but our party, not to be outdone, also laughed 
long and earnestly at what Mr. Gowen said. His 
speech really ran something like this: 

"Friends, Romans, countrymen! — Gosh, if there's 
anybody here who can understand English" — a very 
expansive gesture — "and if these people happen to be 
cannibals — good-night! Lend me your ears. 

"It is not the good things that men do — no, that's 
not it — how does it go, anyhow? Anyhow, it's some- 
thing about the good things living instead of the 
evil things. Let's start on something else" — several 
grand gestures — "how about Portia's address! It 
dropped like the — or is it falleth — like the gentle rain 
from Heaven to the place beneath. Any of you folks 
remember that? I remembered all of it before I started 
to make the speech. Four score and ten years ago — 
that reminds me, somebody got the bridge score all 
balled up this morning — Oh, thunder!" 

The last was a very thunderous remark, as it should 
have been. It was impressive, and brought applause. 
Now and then Mr. Gowen would pause and in an aside 
to me say something like this: 

"Jean, how long do you think I must keep this up? 
Laugh, you people, for heaven's sake. Don't sit there 
looking like funerals." 

For two hours the islander and Mr. Gowen declaimed 
by turns. During all this time the women were edging 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxvii 

nearer and nearer to me, looking me over with great 
curiosity. Finally, one of them, bolder than the others, 
decided that she liked the sweater I was wearing tre- 
mendously. 

She indicated this by pulling at it and making gestures 
signifying that she would like it for herself. Her mean- 
ing was unmistakable, but as she was easily about 
three times my size I could not see the necessity of 
giving it to her — besides, I liked the sweater myself. 

Finally these festivities came to an end and we went 
back to the boat, every one of our hosts and hostesses 
following us. Some of them jumped into the water 
and swam around the boat. Others clung closely to 
our party as we clambered aboard the trader and 
across to our own craft. 

What was our surprise when we got back to the boat 
to find a pig and a chicken strolling around the deck! 
They were among numerous presents that had been 
sent to us — ^panama hats, beads made of shells, corals, 
an enormous live turtle, and fruits of every description. 

Our visitors were fascinated with everything about 
the boat, especially showing interest in the electric 
lights and the fans. Wherever they went about our 
floating home, these proved the most interesting to 
the islanders. 

There is an automatic switch on the door opening 
into the lockers so that when the door is opened a light 
is turned on. When this was discovered by the natives 
they nearly wore the hinges from the door opening and 
shutting it. 



xxviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

They were like children with brand-new toys. At 
first they were frightened by the fans, but by degrees 
they grew accustomed to them and were highly di- 
verted. 

The principal product of the island of Takaroa is 
copra, dried coconut meat. Although there are all 
sorts of tropical fruits, the people live mostly on raw 
fish, taro, and yams. 

When we left the place we took half the inhabitants 
of Takaroa with us, copra bugs, a silent army, which 
followed us until we bribed Bill with a new suit to get 
rid of them for us. Bill cleansed the boat very thor- 
oughly of these tiny insect pests, but until he did we 
were besieged wherever we went aboard by thousands 
and thousands of them. They reminded us of little 
white ants, of which we had a profusion later. 

The Speejacks really had never been used as a cattle 
ship and the presence of a pig and a chicken did not 
add to my joy. 

The boys had nicknamed the chicken Dave and the pig 
Kooch, after part of the crew, and there is a deep tragedy 
in connection with that. No one knows whether they 
were murdered or committed suicide. 

We were all aroused in the middle of the night by a 
series of grunts from Kooch, our gift pig. Two days 
later he was sighted floating on the surface of the water. 
We are still wondering why the sharks overlooked this 
dainty morsel. 

When the native Takaroans discovered the absence 
of Kooch and no pork chops on our table they im- 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxix 

mediately arrived at the conclusion that Kooch had 
deserted us, whereupon they proudly presented us with 
a hog three times as big, ten times as noisy, and one 
hundred times dirtier than Kooch. The cook butchered 
it ashore and we had fresh pork for a couple of weeks. 

Mr. Gowen is very jealous of the finished portions of 
the boat, especially of the mahogany steering wheel, 
as beautiful a piece of marine work of its kind as I have 
ever seen. 

Among the Hve-stock gifts of the Takaroans was a 
huge land crab, a Pacific island pest very destructive 
to coconut groves, its powerful claws biting into the 
young trees as deeply as would an axman's stroke. This 
particular gift crab measured more than two feet across 
and had claws of steel. The natives handle these things 
with great ease, for they know how. The donor of 
this particular crab showed me how to hold it without 
danger to myself. 

Quite proudly I walked into the pilot house announc- 
ing to Mr. Gowen and Mr. Rogers, who were there, 
that here was a new man to relieve them on their 
watches. 

As I spoke the creature reached out with one of its 
powerful claws and gripped the wheel. As it reached 
with a strange and crackling sound, grabbing the wheel 
with a death grip, Mr. Gowen and the others fled, 
leaving me in possession of the crab, the pilot house, 
and the wheel. 

It was extremely funny to me for a while, but when 
the crab refused to let go of the wheel and I did not 



XXX THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

dare let go of the crab, because I knew or was pretty 
sure he would take hold of me with the same sort of a 
grip he had on the wheel, the situation lost its humor- 
ous charm. Finally, in desperation, I called to the 
grinning Takaroan, who had bestowed it upon me, to 
come and pry it loose. 

He came obligingly, gently took hold of the crab, 
spoke a few soft words to it and it let go of the wheel. 
Whereupon he kindly offered it to me again, but this 
time I knew better than to take hold of it. It was the 
pet of the boat for three days. It was during those 
same three days that Mr. Gowen refused to speak to 
anybody on board because of the damage the crab had 
done to his mahogany wheel, damage which has been 
repaired since we came home — a severed spoke of ma- 
hogany replaced by one that almost matches. The 
crab finally joined Kooch in some mysterious manner. 

Tahitiy Land of Living Bronze Statues 

We tarried four indolent days at Takaroa, two of 
them being spent in the interior of the island, which was 
easier to reach than might be imagined. We simply 
ran the Speejacks into the interior — through a lagoon- 
like bay that almost split the island into two pieces. 

The people gave boat races for us, sang and danced. 
In turn we took our Victrola ashore and played for them. 
It finally developed into quite a frolic. Mr. Rogers 
and I would dance and they would go mad with excite- 
ment. 

Then they would dance, and we all danced together 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxxi 

— fox trots, one steps — the modem American dances 
as opposed to the ancient undulations of the Pacific. 
Such laughing and shouting you never heard. You 
wouldn't dream it came from the throats of grown men 
and women, some of them grandmothers and grand- 
fathers. 

We danced on the sand and the only light was the 
moon, the flashes of torches, and our searchlight from 
the boat. 

When we first flashed on the searchlight there were 
screaming and howling and the barking of dogs. We 
thought that at least someone had been killed, but it 
developed only that they were petrified by the search- 
light and thought it a device of the devil. It was 
difficult to calm them. 

Once during the evening there was a dog fight. We 
learned by unhappy experience that it was not an 
evidence of good judgment to interfere in native dog 
fights, as the respective families owning the dogs were 
shouting them on at the tops of their voices and could 
hardly be distinguished from the dogs. 

These Pacific Islanders are all wonderful swimmers 
and the Takaroans gave demonstrations for us. All 
natives dive feet foremost— just jump in — and it sur- 
prised them immensely when we dived in head foremost. 
One man of fifty-five years stayed under water for one 
minute and twenty-two seconds. 

During the pearl-diving season there is always great 
danger from sharks. They showed us their system of 
recognizing when a fellow diver is in a precarious posi- 



xxxii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

tion. Two men always go in one boat and if there is 
any danger they tie a rag on the mast and then it 
is known that they need assistance. 

One of them fell overboard in the demonstration and 
the cry rang out: "Te tepi/' meaning man overboard, 
whereupon the other man jumped in after him. 

Death by drowning is one of their greatest fears. 
There are no wild animals on their island; they are at 
peace with the world. While several boatloads of 
pearl divers were demonstrating their "te tepi" the 
principal actor of the demonstration, who had brought 
his family along, took the part of the drowned man. 
Among them was a boy about five years old. When 
the youngster heard the cry, "te tepi," he became hys- 
terical. It was almost impossible to comfort him, even 
when the father returned to the boat and took him in 
his arms. 

The native wife of the steamer captain had been 
eating American food cooked in American ways and 
served a la United States on board the Speejacks. She 
stood it for three meals and then asked permission to 
eat luncheon ashore. We saw her at that luncheon, 
consuming fish and shellfish raw. 

On that occasion I tried it for the first time myself. 
Later on here and elsewhere, including the Fiji Islands, 
I ate still more strange foods — but more of those 
shudders later. 

Capt. B 's wife must have been very beautiful 

in her girlhood. She had long black hair that she wore 
hanging in gorgeous braids, and always decorated with 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxxiii 

tiari blossoms. A tiari is something between our jas- 
mine and gardenia and has the fragrance of both. 

A wreath made of these blossoms is the most exquisite 
perfume imaginable. The aroma will linger a year in 
a dried blossom. Only the other day I parted regret- 
fully with my last remnants of tiari blossoms. 

While we were in the interior the Speejacks* quartette 
sang for the natives and we played our portable Vic- 
trola, the first they had ever seen or heard. At first 
they thought it was we who were singing for them. 
When they heard a woman's voice they would watch 
me and roar with laughter. 

Finally I had to take them up to the thing and show 
them the records and even then they were amazed — 
and very apparently skeptical. Some of the popular 
songs the quartette rendered for them were received 
with great glee. 

We found the people in the interior more than pre- 
pared to receive us. The men had made costumes of 
palm leaves and had wreaths on their hair made of 
leaves. 

I admired a wreath that one of the dancers was wear- 
ing. He took it off of his head and gave it to me. It 
smelled horribly of coconut oil and perspiration, but he 
put it on my head and beamed on me so appreciatively 
that the amenities of the occasion demanded that I wear 
it the rest of the evening. 

They danced for us; dances that were fairly fascinat- 
ing. They were the most graceful things to watch I 
had ever seen. It was weird; almost unimaginable. 



xxxiv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

The boat anchored in the long lagoon, by which we had 
cut into the island, provided the only civilized illumi- 
nation. 

There was bright moonlight. The darkness under 
the palm trees of the background was picked out by the 
light of torches. Accompanied by the beating of the 
tom-toms with their weird droning "bom-bom — 
bom-bom-bom, bom-bom — ^bom-bom-bom," the three 
groups, into which they divided themselves, would set 
up their singing. 

The men, women, and children sat in these three 
groups, each with a leader who played on the drum. 
When they asked us to dance, they were so eager that 
we could not refuse, but dancing the American fox 
trot in deep sand is not the easiest thing. 

We fell often and lost the meter of the dance entirely, 
but the natives thought that was all a part of the pro- 
gramme — the best part. 

The unpleasant two-day trip from Takaroa to Tahiti 
was more than compensated for by our first glimpse of 
the shores of Tahiti and Moorea. As we came into 
the harbour everybody was in a sort of awed quiet. 
It was in the middle of the afternoon, when people are 
having their siesta. 

Everything closes in Tahiti in the afternoon. The 
stores open at 5:30 A. M. and the real commercial life 
is from 5:30 to 11 in the morning. Then there is a lull 
from 11 to 4. 

But someone sighted the Speejacks. They could all 
see us, and by the time we came in the dock was crowded 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxxv 

with Tahitians and others. The boat Hsted from the 
weight of those who hung on the sides. 

Coming through the channel to the harbour of Pa- 
peete, away off about thirty miles to the right, was the 
very sharply outlined silhouette of the island of Moorea, 
which in a way guards the entrance to Papeete harbour. 
Tahiti rises rather abruptly from its shore line where 
the town lies, rising and ever rising on billowy banks 
of palms until the green of the interior is lost in the 
clear blue of the sparkling sky above it. 

Immediately upon docking at Papeete four of the 
most valuable members of our crew left us. This num- 
ber included our captain-navigator, our wireless opera- 
tor, and two others, who had been with us from New 
York. The engineer for the moment became captain 
as he did on other occasions when our navigating officers 
departed. 

Word of our coming had preceded us at Papeete. 
We were showered with receptions and parties during 
all the time we were there. Norman Brander, one of 
the principal white men on the whole island of Tahiti 
commercially, owner of one of the most beautiful 
tropical estates I have seen anywhere, gave a Chinese 
dinner for us. It was our first real Chinese dinner — 
real even to the extent of eating some fifteen courses 
with chop sticks. 

At the table were people of a dozen nationalities, 
while at other tables in the place there must have been 
even more races and nationalities represented. 

French is the principal language of the island, but 



xxxvi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

you will find, if you care to search for it, almost any 
civilized or uncivilized speech. 

After the dinner we drove to Mr. Brander's estate, a 
distance of three miles from Papeete. We were greeted 
there by a group of Tahitian dancers, men and women 
whom he had gathered from all parts of the island for 
our benefit. A stringed instrument, strange to me but 
on the order of a ukulele, was played by some of the 
women dancers. 

Men and women never dance together in any part 
of the Pacific islands. The dancers here were clad 
principally in smiles and flowers and many beautiful 
girls were to be seen, all with very long black hair 
reaching to their knees. The dancing kept up all 
night and Mr. Brander told us that if he should give 
them enough rum they would dance for two or three 
days without stopping. 

Several women would dance at a time, a dance some- 
what similar to the Hawaiian hula-hula but much more 
graceful. 

The dances usually seen by European visitors are said 
to be disgraceful and vulgar, but I am told, and I be- 
lieve with truth, that the real Tahitian dancing, such as 
we saw, is never either vulgar or disgraceful. Certainly 
we saw nothing that could honestly be characterized 
as aught but simply beautiful. 

I think Tahitian women are as beautiful as any na- 
tive women we have seen anywhere, not necessarily 
those at Papeete, because they have tried to modernize 
themselves and have ruined their natural charm with 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxxvii 

imitations of our clothes, but in the actual island of 
Tahiti where most of the people look like bronze statues. 
All of them seem more like great smiling children than 
anything else. Most of them are of about medium 
height with soft, liquid brown eyes, clear skins with a 
tinge of red in the bronze, and sparkling white teeth. 

They are all very affectionate and when they saw how 
interested we were in their dancing, endeavoured to 
show us the movement. 

The dance is mostly gestures. They seem just to 
live in their dances, which apparently are interpretative 
of the "meke-meke" of those who squatted in the 
shadows playing the stringed instruments and singing. 

Their music embraces a scale of little more than four 
notes. This, it might seem, would sound monotonous. 
On the contrary, I found it very pleasantly melodious. 
People who have lived on the islands for some time 
profess becoming bored with it, but I believe I could 
listen to their singing and watch their gestures and listen 
to the inevitable accompaniment of their stringed in- 
struments forever, with increasing interest. 

It seems in some curious way to belong to them. 
The interest in their faces never dies, no matter how 
long they continue singing. I loved these native en- 
tertainments so much that almost every night when 
we were on the island Mr. Brander entertained us in 
the same manner. 

Mr. Brander, who is thoroughly English, a very 
highly cultured and delightful man, has a slight strain 
of Tahitian blood. He is very English until he hears 



xxxviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

this Tahitian music, whereupon he becomes Tahitian. 
His eyes begin to sparkle and he cannot keep his feet 
still. So much may be said for the alleged ennui 
among those familiar with the music. He apparently 
never tires of it and never will. 

There were other parties given by various residents 
in Papeete, all of them interesting and delightful, but 
the exhibitions of native dances as arranged by Mr. 
Brander stand out in memory above everything else 
connected with Tahiti. 

One of the most beautiful customs of the country is 
that of wearing flowers in the hair. The first requisite 
of a party is wreaths of leaves for the men and of jas- 
mine, tiari blossoms, and hibiscus for the women. 

No party which we attended in all Tahiti given by 
either Europeans or natives was complete without the 
flowers. Even on the street all the men, women, and 
children were decorated with their favourite blossoms. 

One of the native conceits is to the effect that if a 
man wears a tiari blossom over his left ear he is looking 
for a sweetheart; if he wears one over his right ear he 
is satisfied with the one he possesses; if he wears one 
over both ears he is quite satisfied — but wouldn't mind 
having several others. 

I may as well say that the members of our party were 
to be seen at all hours with flowers over both ears, which 
they hastily removed on sighting me in the distance. 

The first day I was in Tahiti, Mr. Ingraham, Mr. 
Rogers, and I were strolling down the main thorough- 
fare. The first smiling Tahitian we encountered I 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xxxix 

greeted by saying, "You're a nut." She bowed pleas- 
antly and murmured something. Both boys were 
startled. 

"Why, Jean," Mr. Ingraham said, "we will be put 
out of here if you begin calling people nuts. We have 
only been here a few hours." 

But it soon developed that it is the polite greeting, 
" How do you do? " The actual words are phonetically, 
"Uranuh," with accent on the last syllable. But 
"You're a nut" won universal approval and always 
brought pleasant smiles. 

Here is another one of the many entanglements of 
the island with which we came inadvertently into con- 
tact. This concerned a European gentleman who had 
been sojourning in Tahiti for some time. 

He had come for a period of two weeks but became 
enamoured of a nut-brown maiden. His affection soon 
cooled while hers warmed. Every time he even thought 
of leaving — and he had begun to think seriously and 
frequently of it of late — the fair admirer threatened to 
shoot him. 

He appealed to us to smuggle him away — then he 
disappeared. The last I heard was that he had left 
in the dead of night on a sailing boat which took him 
fifty-nine days to reach the next port. The two months 
at sea he seemed to prefer to the savage wooing of the 
Tahitian girl, the amorous sighs, the threats of sudden 
death. 

My misunderstanding of the Tahitian language and 
the joyous sojourning of the other members of our party 



xl THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

— our extreme interest in everything that happened — 
must have made us a prime topic of conversation among 
the people of the island for months after we left. 

Like everybody else there, I hung flowers across my 
shoulders, in my hair, wherever I could place them. 
Much to my surprise, every now and then some one 
would politely ask me what portion of the island I came 
from. This amused me somewhat until I discovered 
they thought I was an islander, or of Tahitian blood. 

I then found a little perverse amusement in claiming 
various parts of the Pacific as my home. When asked 
such questions, however, I always admitted being of 
royal blood. 

Everybody out here admits the same thing. They 
are like some of the American policemen who claim 
direct descent from old Celtic kings. 

Before we left Tahiti it was necessary to fill up our 
depleted crew and acquire a new navigator-captain. 
Of the four we finally engaged all but one were dismissed 
at our next stop, including the captain we had so hope- 
fully engaged. 

He had to go because navigating any kind of a boat 
in the open sea and trying to drink all of the liquor 
made in the Pacific, plus a lot imported, do not jibe. 

It was with deep regret that we left Tahiti and the 
many pleasant people we met there, the extreme beauty 
and barbaric charm of the natives, their music and their 
dances, but we were travelling around the world on a 
schedule. 

We could not tarry. Samoa and the Fiji Islands 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xli 

beckoned. We were already two hours and twenty- 
minutes behind our schedule and whether we liked it 
or not we had to speed out again into the Pacific. 

The Fire-Walkers of Fiji 

For months before we started on our great adventure, 
the living room of our house was turned into a map room 
— a veritable schoolroom. 

The principal piece of furniture was a huge globe on 
a pedestal. One whole wall was taken up with maps 
and charts on rollers. We bought maps, begged and 
borrowed them, wherever we could find trace of them. 

As we studied and pored over them, tracing our way 
across the great Pacific, here and there would be a dot 
or a whole splatter of little black dots, some named 
and some unnamed. 

Now and then would appear a notation: "Unex- 
plored," "unfriendly natives," "cannibals," and so on. 
There were great romance and anticipation in placing 
our fingers upon these dots on the maps. 

Now we were out in the middle of the Pacific sailing 
the sparsely charted ocean, right in the middle, physi- 
cally, of these splatters of dots, and it was a wondrous 
temptation to steer straight for those marked on our 
maps as unfriendly, unexplored, and inhospitable. 

Not far from Tahiti there were some of these intrigu- 
ing dots on the ocean, but it was not until later, despite 
my appeals, that we visited any of them. We headed 
from Tahiti to Samoa, tarried there only a short time, 
then pressed on to the Fijis, which really proved to be 



xlii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

one of the strongest highlights in the whole log of the 
Speejacks. 

The only thing I could remember about Fiji was an 
old popular song which pictured the natives as being 
barbarous; so it was quite a shock to discover that 
many of them had had better educations than some of 
us may have had and that they were conversant with 
such things as Wells's ** Outline of History," the Oxford 
Book of English Verse, and various things that were 
hardly compatible with my idea of the savage Fijian. 
It is only those who live in Suva and Levuka, the prin- 
cipal cities of Fiji, who have acquired any degree of 
culture. The English have established schools there, 
and as the native is naturally quick-witted he has 
made the most of his opportunities. Of all occupations 
the native Fijian likes soldiering the best. He scorns 
domestic service, and labour in the field he does not 
favour. Nature has provided the Fijian with all that 
he requires by way of sustenance. Therefore he does 
not see why he should work. There are imported In- 
dian cooHes there to do the hard labour even as in 
Jamaica. 

The Grand Pacific Hotel at Suva is a beautiful place, 
and very picturesque. All the employees are Fijians, 
who wear knee-length costumes of white with belts of 
red and gold. It is a great honour to a Fijian to work 
in hotels or banks or as a waiter; work which, strangely 
enough, they do not regard as menial. 

The native costume of Fiji is a sulu and resembles 
the pareu very much, but in the interior of Fiji practi- 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xliii 

cally the only costume is a loin cloth. We were fortunate 
in having with us Jay Ingraham, our movie photogra- 
pher, who had been to Fiji before and had many friends 
there. Through him we arranged to see the fire- 
walking. This was an exceptionally difficult thing to 
see, as our sight of it was the third time in twenty-two 
years it had been witnessed by outsiders. The last 
time previous to our visit was when the Prince of Wales 
was there. 

Very few people, even those who have lived there 
all their lives, have seen this religious spectacle. I 
believe I am the only American woman and one of the 
few white women of any country ever to have seen it. 

The fire-walkers are a small tribe who live in the 
island of Bequa. Their whole life is consecrated to 
this ceremonial. From childhood they are trained and 
prepared for it, only a small percentage of those who 
take the lifetime training being chosen for the cere- 
monies. They are, in some respects, comparable to the 
people of Oberammergau, whose lives are consecrated 
to the Passion Play. 

The island of Bequa is twenty-four miles from Suva 
and it was arranged for us to witness the fire-walkers at 
3 o'clock in the afternoon. We were to bring no more 
than ten persons with us, in addition to our crew, and 
were to arrive early in the morning, so that we might 
see the whole thing in preparation. 

We were greeted by the roko or chief of the tribe, and 
had with us Ratu Secuna, a native prince. It was 
there my first introduction to kava, a native drink, 



xliv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

took place. Kava tastes as dishwater looks, and is 
the most fiendish concoction I can imagine. It is made 
from the roots of the yagona tree and the preparation 
itself is a great ceremonial taken with the utmost se- 
riousness. Kava is not intoxicating to the natives, but 
carries a deadly wallop for white-skinned consumers. 
Some foreigners have become quite fond of it. The 
natives are not permitted intoxicating liquors by British 
law, for it makes them just the opposite to their nor- 
mally kind character. The only effect of kava on the 
natives is a sort of weak-kneed condition. 

We had barely landed when we were led to a hut. 
The natives had learned of our coming, and for two days 
had been preparing the island for our arrival. The hut 
to which we were led belonged to the roko and was filled 
with flowers and leaves, fruit and native food. All the 
natives were dressed in coconut oil and leaves, and such 
an odour I have never known. The women of the 
island were still in the throes of preparation and we were 
met by all the men. Upon arriving at the roko's hut 
we were given mats to sit on, there being no chairs on 
the island. 

We were told by the native prince, as we were first 
taken into the hut, not to be surprised at anything that 
might happen were we to refuse anything that might 
be given us to drink or fail to do anything we were told 
to do. The pledge, of course, was taken lightly enough 
by us. While we were still smiling in anticipation of 
whatever might happen following such a stupendous 
warning the ceremony of the day was actually begun 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xlv 

before we realized it. As we sat on the mats more than 
fifty natives, their brown bodies clothed in leaves and 
glistening with copious applications of coconut oil, 
came in and massed themselves on the floor facing us. 
Here and there among them was some apparently spe- 
cially honoured one wearing a costume made of coconut 
tree bark, gorgeous in its colouring, upon which we were 
told the wearers had spent days in preparation. 

After this mass of smelly humanity had been packed 
in before us, a huge man, apparently the high priest of 
the whole thing, came in majestically alone. In his 
hands he carried a wooden bowl about six feet in diame- 
ter, so large that even this huge man staggered under 
its weight. Carefully he deposited the bowl in the open 
space between the spectators and his assistants. Our 
smiles and giggles of anticipation faded suddenly, for 
upon the high priest's entrance, the men who had pre- 
ceded him became hideous, glaring savages in appear- 
ance. No longer was there anything smiling in their 
faces. Even the native prince, who had accompanied 
us and who sat on our side of the room, assumed this 
same portentous mask. 

A chill crept into our very bones as the high priest 
suddenly leaped high into the air and clapped his hands, 
accompanied by a chorus of groans from those on the 
floor. With another shout the master of ceremonies 
leaped over the bowl. Twice he did this with strange 
and weird gestures of his hands and upper body. Two 
bearers then came into the room carrying all they could 
stagger under — ^huge bundles of yagona roots, which 



xlvi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

apparently had gone through some preparation before 
this. These were solemnly placed in the bowl. The 
priest again assumed command of the situation by 
pouring a small quantity of some liquid, the nature of 
which we never learned — possibly it is one of the real 
mysteries of their ceremonial — over the roots in the 
bowl, a small quantity at a time. After each pouring 
the urns would be refilled by attendants, while the high 
priest with his imwashed hands would knead the mess, 
groaning and grunting abysmally as he did so. 

Finally, after many repetitions of this process, the 
bowl was filled. It had taken him almost an hour, 
and the culmination of his efforts was a bowl filled with 
a thick, muddy-appearing substance. Then to each of 
us spectators the priest gave half a coconut shell, and 
I noticed that to me had been given the smallest of them 
all. As each was given one of these shell cups there 
would be a groan from the chorus. The prince at 
this moment whispered to us that we must do as we 
were commanded, otherwise a social error would be 
committed. This was more easily promised than ac- 
tually accomplished, for the priest dipped into the mys- 
terious brew and filled the cup which Mr. Gowen held. 
He was told to drink the stuff and then spin the coconut 
shell on its point, that it must be drunk without stopping 
and that the longer the cup would spin the greater 
would he thus give evidence of his appreciation of the 
island's hospitality. 

It was one of the really tense moments of my life, 
but Mr. Gowen drank the stuff in one gulp and the spin 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xlvii 

he gave the cup was wonderful. There was a low moan 
begun as he started to drink, which gradually rose in 
volume until it reached a marrow-chilling sound, cul- 
minating when the cup stopped spinning into a mighty 
shout from them all, which caused all of us honestly to 
jump completely out of our skins. You may think that 
cannot be done, but we have done it. 

I was next! 

Into my cup was poured a ladle of the evil-smelling 
stuff, which I later learned was kava. Possibly I 
looked piteous, for the priest did not quite fill my cup. 
The chorus of moans began as I hfted my cup, said the 
only prayer I knew, and took a deep breath. Somehow, 
despite my knowledge of the preparation of the stuff, 
I swallowed it and somehow my hands remained steady 
enough to make that idiotic little coconut shell spin on 
its point. Again the moan rose to a shout and again I 
jumped out of my skin. 

Everybody else in our party went through the same 
ordeal while I sat nauseated and wondering if I could 
keep my potion down. I did. We were then con- 
ducted outside the hut to gaze on the preparation for 
the fire-walking. An enormous circular hole, approxi- 
mately twenty feet in diameter and half as deep, had 
been dug in the earth. It had been filled with fuel 
wood and covered over in a heap with stones. The 
debris under the stones had been fired and fed for 
twenty-four hours before, so that the stones were at a 
white heat. 

Six men played the principal part in the ceremony 



xlviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

that followed. All six became animated at once. First 
one, then another, would walk out near this blazing 
inferno, reaching down with bare hands and pulling 
out blazing fagots until the bed of rock was level with 
the ground. The heat from the stones was so intense 
that our party of spectators could not stand within 
twenty feet of it. But while the men were levelling 
down the stones, two of them came to me and through 
our interpreter told me seriously and simply that if I 
were to take their hands they would lead me over the 
stones without injury. I got quite close to the stones, 
but Mr. Gowen would not permit the fire-walkers to 
lead me across. I believe I could have walked across 
those stones without being burned; at least that im- 
pression was given me by the two very sincere men who 
offered to take me there. 

The actual ceremony, of which all our previous day 
had been but preliminary, began then and it lasted 
only two minutes. During these two minutes the sur- 
rounding natives yelled and chanted and played on 
tom-toms while the performers did a sort of dance, a 
very slow dance, walking over the stones. After it 
was over the only disturbance that we noticed was their 
breathing. Every breath would come in gasps, but 
their bodies, their hands, their feet, were not only im- 
bumed but unsinged. 

Scientists from every country in the world have tried 
to solve this, not only in Fiji, but in India, where a sim- 
ilar ceremonial — also of a religious nature — is practised, 
but no one has ever been able to arrive at a logical 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA xlix 

explanation. The natural assumption is that they put 
some sort of preparation on their skin which prevents 
burning, but if this were done, it seems impossible that 
it would remain on the soles of their feet, for we saw 
them walking about for hours before they came to the 
culminating ceremony. We made photographs and 
moving pictures of the entire ceremony, and especially 
of the feet of the participants. Not a blister is seen on 
any of them. 

Into the Interior of Fiji 

Suva, the capital of Fiji, is the Mecca of tourists 
from Australia and New Zealand. Ocean liners from 
these places stop once a week going to and from Aus- 
tralia, New Zealand, and America. 

But it is rare for a tourist to go inland in Fiji. One 
reason is that of the difficulty of getting into the 
interior. Fiji, which is really a mass of between two 
and three hundred islands, is divided into two prin- 
cipal groups — Viti Levu (Great Fiji), and Vanua Levu 
(Smaller Fiji). 

The larger islands are mountains rising to heights of 
more than 4,000 feet. Nearly all are clothed from base 
to summit in a mantle of verdant green, while the 
valleys are covered with magnificent tropical flora, 
rich and abundant in variety. 

It is an exceedingly well-watered country. The 
Rewa River, which drains the eastern part of Viti Levu, 
is navigable for vessels of light draught for more than 
fifty miles. 



1 THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

We were very anxious to see something of the real 
Fiji, and so when a trip was outlined to us we were de- 
lighted. It was arranged to travel in the Speejacks, 
first to Levuka, the old capital of Fiji, beautifully sit- 
uated some forty or fifty miles from Suva, the back- 
groimd of the town being an amphitheatre of steep, 
green-clad hills. 

Our next objective was the small island of Bau, 
where we were the guests of Ratu Eppeli, the roko 
or king of Bau, a son of Thakambau. Bau means 
"evil." 

When the missionaries and white traders arrived in 
Fiji in the early part of the last century they foimd 
cannibalism so rampant that the group was for years 
known as the " Cannibal Islands." This state of affairs 
continued until Fiji passed into British control, which 
happened about 1875. 

There were many fiendish and barbarous customs the 
British were called upon to abolish, customs equally as 
barbaric as cannibalism. 

For instance, one custom, somewhat similar to Hindu 
widow-burning, was to slaughter the wives of a chief 
at his death and bury them with him. This, however, 
was discontinued during the time of Thakambau, who 
was eventually persuaded to prohibit any more sacri- 
fices of that description. 

The conduct of all savages is governed absolutely 
by tribal custom, and because the Fijians had customs 
of this kind it does not follow they are of cruel and piti- 
less disposition. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA li 

On the contrary, they are kind, cheerful, honest, and 
good-natured. Certainly they disburse the very es- 
sence of hospitality, and their children are idolized to 
such an extent that they tyrannize the household. 

Notwithstanding this decree of Thakambau, after- 
ward upon the death of his own father, Tanoa, he al- 
lowed the wives to be sacrificed simply because, like all 
of us, he was compelled to defer to public opinion. 

Those most interested — ^namely, the wives themselves 
— ^upbraided him in the most violent manner, and threat- 
ened to kill themselves if they were not at once sacri- 
ficed so that they might join their lord and master in 
the other world to which he had preceded them. 

The average savage Fijian, appearing, from a physical 
standpoint, to be a marvellous specimen of manhood, is 
mentally on a par with a civilized child of ten — ^he is 
ever-changeful, unrehable, capricious, and a slave to 
passions. 

The island of Bau is about two miles in circumfer- 
ence, and on account of its associations with some of the 
most strenuous periods of Fijian history, it held intense 
interest for us. 

It was from the island of Bau that the celebrated 
tribe, which was headed by Tanoa, himself a man of 
remarkable military genius and a leader of men, em- 
barked on its campaign of conquest. It was here the 
renowned Thakambau, a Fijian Napoleon, was born 
and brought up by his war-like father and, ''like sire 
like son,'* proved himself to be in every respect worthy 
of his illustrious progenitor. 



lu THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

On this island were celebrated his victories over the 
powerful rival chiefs, which brought virtually the whole 
group under his dominion and sway. Here the san- 
guinary war god was honoured with orgies of anthro- 
pophagi for vouchsafing victory; to such an extent, in 
fact, that the word Fiji became synonymous with can- 
nibalism. 

It was arranged that Ratu Eppeli should be our com- 
panion and guide on a trip far into the interior of Fiji 
such as few people have ever made. We were to leave 
the Speejacks at this point to return to Suva; we our- 
selves to return by gradual process, on foot, on horse- 
back, and by "takias'' or native canoes. 

In our party, in addition to Messrs. Gowen, Ingra- 
ham, and Rogers, was an English gentleman, James 
Davis, head of one of the leading firms of Suva, a resi- 
dent of Fiji for many years. Mr. Davis probably had 
as good an understanding of the natives as any white 
man in Fiji and spoke their language fluently. Accom- 
panying him was his daughter, Rea, a seventeen-year-old 
schoolgirl who would be a companion for me. 

We were met by Ratu Eppeli, who escorted us up to 
his home, ideally located on the summit of a hill. 

As we sat on the veranda of the roko's house, over- 
looking the tranquil and crystal sea, listening to the 
Fijian worshippers at their evening services, lifting up 
their voices in praise and adoration to the Prince of 
Peace, it was almost impossible to realize that just a 
few short years before bloodshed and slaughter were 
the order of the day among the inhabitants of the same 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA liii 

small isle, while a cannibalistic orgy was the prevailing 
celebration of a victory over their mainland enemies. 

Ratu Eppeli had sent messages ahead to the various 
villages by bush telegraph of our coming. Bush tele- 
graph is the universal means of communication in all 
the islands of the Pacific. Men called runners circulate 
all news and these runners were a source of undying as- 
tonishment to me. They could go faster than horses 
through virgin bush, swimming where there were no 
bridges and always seeming to arrive at their destina- 
tions far in advance of us. 

We were to begin our trip at dawn the following morn- 
ing, going by horseback the first twenty or thirty miles. 
But on the day of our arrival came the worst tropical 
storm I have ever witnessed. Unless one has actually 
experienced a tropical storm it is difficult to visualize it. 
There is usually no warning; the sun perhaps is shining, 
suddenly the rain comes in torrents with the most tre- 
mendous floods of water. Just as suddenly these 
storms cease. 

Ratu Eppeli told us it would be extremely hazardous 
to venture forth the following day. We were to go 
over many dangerous passes and ford many streams 
and to travel in takias through rapids, and after such 
an unusually heavy rain storm he told us it would be 
too dangerous to risk going at once. Therefore he 
urged us to remain in his house as his guests until such 
time as it was safe to begin our journey. 

He was very much upset by the presence of Rea and 
myself; he felt a great deal of trepidation in our going, 



Uv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

but I finally managed to calm him by calling his atten- 
tion to the fact that I had then travelled a goodly dis- 
tance in the Speejacks, which was not exactly without 
its dangerous aspect, and if the men could go we, too, 
could risk it. 

He was very reluctant, assuring me I did not appre- 
ciate just what I was bargaining for, and it later devel- 
oped he told the bitter truth. Nevertheless, even with 
the memory of the many incidents of that journey fresh 
in my mind, I certainly would go again. 

Our few days of enforced sojourn with Ratu Eppeli 
proved to be anything but boresome. We were living 
in a more primitive fashion than was our habit, though 
Ratu Eppeli's home is more European than native. 

Rea and I were given a room to ourselves, a room 
which, strangely enough, contained a mirror and a 
couple of chairs. There were hardwood floors in Ratu 
Eppeli's home, about the hardest wood I encountered 
anywhere. I had every opportunity of testing them, 
for we slept on the floor! 

We were given wooden head-rests for pillows, such as 
the Japanese use, but after trying mine out I decided 
to dispense with that little convenience. Part of our 
baggage was a mosquito netting which we carried with 
us, but the room was already equipped with one which 
hung from the ceiling, so we used our net for pillows. 

Shortly before we retired to our downy couches Mr. 
Davis had been regaling us with the story of a fugitive 
from justice who had been apprehended by measuring 
the impressions he had made in his bed the night before* 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Iv 

As Rea and I laid ourselves down on the hard floor we 
both felt we would never be apprehended by any one 
if they depended on the impression we were making in 
ours. 

Ratu Eppeli was a delightful man, educated at Ox- 
ford and possessing a keen sense of humour. He had 
travelled extensively, but always does he return to his 
native mode of living because of several reasons: First, 
because his prestige as a roko would die if he adopted 
European habits, and secondly, because he told me he 
was really happier living^ as his people have always 
lived. 

He was a perfect host and was very anxious that our 
visit be an agreeable one. Food was quite a problem; 
the first day we had much the same things we might 
have had on the Speejacks, and there were several tins 
of canned food which he sent for, but the second day 
presented a problem. We had consumed all the Euro- 
pean food on the island. It was necessary, therefore, 
to eat a la Fijian if we wanted to eat at all. 

I am convinced that the male members of our party 
have cast-iron stomachs. I swear they could eat any- 
thing and everything. 

We dined on divers dishes, raw fish, bread fruit, 
roast dog, yams, taro, and the men ate heartily of 
everything, apparently with relish. Rea and I seemed 
to mislay our appetites. As a matter of fact, I came 
as near choking on that trip as I ever want to come. 
Our host noticed we were not exactly gorging; finally, 
he was attacked by a brilliant thought. 



Ivi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"Have you ever eaten snake, Mrs. Gowen?'* he ex- 
claimed suddenly. 

At the moment I was religiously endeavouring to 
secrete what I thought was a shark's toe. I dropped it 
suddenly, thinking it in all probabiUty a snake. 

"I don't seem to remember having had any,'* I an- 
swered with a strange sinking in the region of my 
stomach. 

"You'll have one — a broiled snake is simply wonder- 
ful," he said enthusiastically, and called his boy forth- 
with. 

Drawing a long breath, and trying to remember I 
was a guest, I endeavoured to explain to Ratu Eppeli, 
without offending him, that I felt my life would be just 
as happy and just as complete and in all probability a 
great deal lengthier without the delicacy of a broiled 
snake. 

I tried to explain that my interior was probably con- 
structed a little differently than his, and would, I felt 
sure, voice a violent protest the moment a broiled snake 
appeared. 

The gallant members of our own party then felt called 
upon to speak and, ignoring my warning glares and 
kicks, urged the roko to produce a snake at our next 
repast. It was then I distinctly saw the pictured visage 
of Thakambau, who hung directly above my seat at 
the table, smile ironically at me. 

Sure enough, our next meal brought the promised 
snake. Rea behaved much worse than I did and posi- 
tively refused her portion. I shall have to admit that. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ivii 

while my admiration for Ratu Eppeli is still great, cer- 
tainly I experienced a decidedly different feeling at that 
moment. My advice to the populace of America is not 
to eat snakes, broiled or otherwise. I ate it. 

Aside from a few little incidents of this kind, our visit 
was wonderfully interesting and great fun. 

The morning we left the roko*s home the sun was 
shining and the day was beautiful. We were all 
given horses and our baggage was sent ahead by native 
runners. 

It was still slippery from the heavy rains of the 
preceding days and it was necessary to ride very slowly. 
We found one or two bridges of very primitive con- 
struction and at each bridge we all had to dismount 
and lead our horses. Twice my horse got stuck be- 
tween the boards of a poorly constructed bridge. 

Many times we forded streams on our horses' backs. 
We rode a good many miles before reaching the winding 
Buka River, the most picturesque river in the world, 
I believe. At this point we were to go by takia for sev- 
eral hundred miles, stopping at various villages on 
the way. Runners were there ahead of us and had 
already piled our baggage in one takia. 

Ratu Eppeli sat on top of the baggage. The only 
thing he took with him was his umbrella, an invaluable 
accessory to a native. The hallmark of a Fijian gen- 
tleman is his umbrella, which he uses to preserve his 
hair from the ravages of rain and sun. 

Boarding a takia, or native canoe, is a very precarious 
experience. A takia is made from the trunk of a tree. 



Iviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A seat is constructed of bamboo, which balances on the 
side. There is only one way of sitting in this boat — 
that is by boarding it with the greatest care and never 
moving once you are seated. 

Rea and I made many false starts, upsetting a few 
times, to the great amusement of the natives, and 
finally managed a fairly firm seat. We were to travel 
a distance of several miles before reaching the first vil- 
lage, where we were to remain overnight. 

There were three takias; Rea and I in one with sev- 
eral native servants and the men of our party in another, 
and Ratu Eppeli and some of his servants in another. 
The boats were propelled by poles, and we were warned 
to remain as still as possible if we did not want to upset. 

Every few moments brought dangerous rapids and 
it was the greatest fun in the world to run them. Ratu 
Eppeli went in the first boat. We suddenly heard great 
shouting and looked ahead to see Ratu Eppeli appar- 
ently just sitting on top of the water. His canoe had 
upset and his natives had jumped overboard trying to 
straighten the boat. 

Ratu Eppeli, who felt not the least concern in the 
world at this episode, was propped up on our baggage, 
which was under water, holding the umbrella over his 
head and beaming amiably at us. He was not at all 
concerned that the only dry clothes we possessed were 
becoming sodden, but was highly amused at the whole 
incident. 

Soon it began to rain in torrents. The natives cov- 
ered Rea and me with banana leaves. Banana leaves 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Mx 

are as big as we and at first we thought they would be 
adequate protection from the vicissitudes of all weather, 
but we soon learned our error. 

The rain beat heavily, tearing the leaves to shreds, 
soaking us to the skin. Rea and I both tried to enthuse 
about this unique experience, but we were slightly fa- 
tigued from not having slept for three nights and from 
riding twenty miles on horses, fording streams, and 
upsetting in canoes. 

By this time our smiles were not as spontaneous as 
they might have been. We were glad to be riding 
alone. We knew we could commiserate with each 
other and each time the canoe containing our men 
passed us we smiled gayly upon them and told them 
what an excellent time we were having. 

Unfortunately our canoe was propelled by such ear- 
nest polers that we preceded the rest of our party by 
several miles and arrived at our destination two hours 
ahead of the others. Rea, unlike her father, could not 
speak Fijian, so while we would have preferred to re- 
main in the canoe, soaked though we were, we were 
landed, whether or no. 

All Fijian villages seem to be located at the tops of 
hills. At this moment I was innocent of the fact. 
Contrary to our expectations, we were not met by 
the villagers. It afterward developed that the villagers 
had prepared for us three days before, had prepared 
huge banquets, had watched for us daily. When we 
did not come they ate the feasts themselves. 

Not knowing this, Rea and I decided to ascend to th^ 



Ix THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

village. It was then very dark and we stumbled and 
fell as we tried to make our way up the steep hill. Each 
of us reminded the other of how anxious we had been 
to go, but we were stiff and tired and wet and memory 
was failing us. 

Finally we were petrified by seeing a flickering light 
coming toward us. Rea thought it was a wild animal 
with eyes that were flashing and started to run back 
down the hill, shouting, "Daddy, daddy!" 

I retrieved her, although feeling none too brave my- 
self. The light approached faster and it was found 
to be only a torch carried by a native. The native was 
delighted to see us, but we did not feel the same intense 
joy at seeing him. He was very dark and very large 
and seemed altogether too friendly. 

All Rea could remember to say in Fijian was "ma- 
rama marama," which means ''good woman" and did 
not seem to convey any great meaning to him. He 
may have thought that we were telling him we were 
good women; I don't know. Anyway, he started ahead 
and we behind. 

He talked the whole way in Fijian; we talked English, 
and altogether we had a very enjoyable conversation. 
We had no idea where we were going but, as Rea said, 
we could not possibly be much worse off than we 
were. 

After many windings and turnings, which so com- 
pletely befuddled us that we did not know north from 
morning, we finally reached the darkest hut in the whole 
place. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA bd 

There was a lantern inside which flickered dimly and 
two women, greased with coconut oil, were sitting on 
mats on the ground of the hut. Our guide pushed us 
inside. 

The women looked at us with a great deal of interest, 
but did not approach us. Rea said " marama marama '' 
to them and said it with an inflection which she intended 
to mean, "How do you do?' ' 

We were very much soiled and wanted water to wash 
with, but had no idea how to ask for it. We stood 
over the women making gestures, pretending to pour 
things, everything on earth we could think of that 
would suggest water to them but they stared blankly 
at us, thinking, I suppose, how singularly half-witted 
white women were. 

We had carried with us a small bag belonging to 
Rea containing some pyjamas. No one but the women 
being about, we decided to undress and do some exer- 
cises so that we would not be stiff the next day. 

In the midst of our preparation we were disturbed by 
hearing cautious footsteps outside the hut. As our eyes 
grew accustomed to the light, we discovered that hun- 
dreds of the natives were gathering just outside, watch- 
ing us. We learned later that the official, who functions 
as a sort of village crier, had gone about noising the 
news that two strange white women were in So-and-So's 
hut and that everybody was invited. 

Apparently they all accepted the invitation. We 
tried to hide behind each other or behind the native 
women, who were there with us, whereupon the natives 



Ixii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

outside, thinking, I suppose, that we were playing hide 
and seek, did likewise. They saw us going through our 
calisthenics, and like the monkeys they appeared to be 
on many occasions, they mimicked us again. 

They were having the time of their lives, but it was 
not so much fun for us when we were compelled to put 
on the clothes we had taken off. We never tried to 
imdress subsequently, and for ten days we wore the 
same clothes night and day, drying them on us when 
we were caught in rain or turned over in the river. 

Rea finally recollected a few more Fijian words, one 
of them "vinaka vinaka,'* which means "very good," 
and the other "Bulu lekaleka marau," which means 
"short life but a gay one," and that did not seem to be 
of any help to us, although we kept murmuring " vinaka 
vinaka" every time any one looked at us. 

Finally it occurred to them that we might be hungry. 
We were starving, but when they brought in a half- 
roasted pig with the head and tail attached, it was the 
last straw for poor Rea. 

She burst into tears and said: "I can't eat that, and 
I am so hungry I could die." She had eaten less than I 
had in the last three days and I had not eaten enough 
to keep a fish alive. 

Before I left America there had been lots of hunger 
strikers who had lived lengthy periods without food, 
according to newspaper reports. I confided these glad 
tidings to Rea and tried to buoy her up, telling her that 
we could probably go on ten more days without eating. 
She did not seem encouraged and said that, although 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixiii 

she did not know about me, she was a growing girl and 
needed regular food in large quantities. 

That did not solve the problem of what we were to 
do about the pig, because I had been warned not to 
make light of any hospitality shown me. I tried to 
make signs that I had just dined, pointing to my stom- 
ach, shaking my head, everything that I thought would 
convey the impression of a crowded stomach. 

The people looked a little discouraged, but did not 
press the pig upon us, leaving it on tempting display. 
Rea kept saying to me: "I wish they would remove 
that animal. It does not add to my comfort." 

After an interminable period the men arrived. Rea 
told her father how himgry we were, but I do not seem 
to remember any sympathy coming from anybody. 
They told us if we were hungry there was beautiful 
pork within our grasp. 

They all ate heartily of it themselves and have 
never been able to see to this day why we could not 
eat half-raw pig. 

It was after 11 before our hut was cleared of people 
and we were told to compose ourselves for the night. 
We were to sleep on mats on the ground, which at 
first we thought would be a great improvement over 
Ratu Eppeli's hardwood floors. We were given special 
sleeping mats and headdress. 

All would have gone well if Rea had not suddenly 
bethought herself and told me to be careful where I put 
my head, because all these people have — well, you have 
seen monkeys in cages picking fleas from each other. 



Ixiv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

The Fijian villagers have wonderful hair, as I have 
said before, heads of hair that in 90 per cent, of cases 
are populous little jungles in themselves. This thought 
disturbed me somewhat. 

Also there was a lantern still left burning. Upon 
inquiry it developed the reason was to keep away rats 
which come into action at night. This thought was so 
disturbing that I decided I was not very tired after all, 
and we passed the fourth consecutive sleepless night. 

The Fijian idea of hospitality at night is to keep the 
guest company when he sleeps. As many villagers as 
the hut could hold, mostly women, came in to perform 
the rite. They slept audibly. We did not. 

It afterward developed that the Speejacks men had 
more pleasant nights in their experience, too. Mr. 
Gowen is a very light sleeper under the most favourable 
conditions. The next morning when I saw him his 
upper lip and the left side of his chin were swollen to 
tremendous proportions. 

I asked him, of course, what had happened to him. 
He was disgusted. When the men of the party had 
settled themselves into a hut near ours all went to 
sleep but he. The usual lantern was left burning in 
their hut, which disturbed him, for he could not sleep 
with the light in the room. 

Accordingly, after the other men were asleep he 
cautiously turned out the light, not knowing that it 
was there and burning for the purpose of keeping away 
insects and rodents. His swollen face, one of the trage- 
dies of the trip, was caused by rat bites. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixv 

That was not all of his ghastly experiences for, roost- 
ing above him without his knowledge, was an epileptic 
chicken which apparently threw a fit during the night 
and fell on him, a fluttering mass of squawking feathers, 
which just about ruined all the nerves he had left. 

We were theoretically awakened in the morning by 
some native war cries. Rea said she had felt right along 
that we would be attacked. 

Rushing to the door of the hut, we saw in the dis- 
tance all the "wild men of Borneo" approaching, bran- 
dishing what appeared to be swords, yowling and playing 
tom-toms. It was merely a meke-meke, a pre-breakfast 
dance, but how were we to know that? It is not 
exactly the alarm clock most acceptable to one of civil- 
ized tendencies. 

Our procedure for ten days was along the same lines. 
At each village where we disembarked we climbed high 
hills. The temperature was always about 150 in the 
shade. Perspiring brows, dirty clothes, aching muscles, 
crying voids in place of stomachs was our lot. 

At each village we were led to the chief's hut, where 
we were given kava. We drank fully two quarts of 
kava a day, ate no food, gazed on greased natives per- 
forming weird dances, and were gazed upon and exam- 
ined in turn. Crowds of villagers followed us every- 
where we went. Our party increased regularly. 

Women and men held our hands and stroked us and 
each time they approached us we felt convinced they 
were thinking about what choice morsels we would be 
to consume. We finally reached a point where we felt 



Ixvi THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

it would be better to be consumed than not to have 
anything to consume ourselves. _ 

After ten days of this happy sojourning we returned 
to Suva in time to take much-needed baths and prepare 
ourselves for a royal repast that evening. Ratu Eppeli 
was our host once more, but this time we were to have 
European food. 

The last straw was added when we reached the dining 
room. A strange figure greeted us. It was Ratu 
Eppeli beautifully dressed in a tuxedo, hard-boiled 
shirt, black tie, waistcoat, but no sign of trousers — his 
huge, bare brown legs, unshod, below the formal coat 
so fascinated me that my intended repast was ruined. 

A Dangerous Voyage to the Land of the Boomerang 

Christmas Day, 1921, foimd us celebrating under 
somewhat different conditions than we were familiar 
with at home. The temperature was around 90 degrees ; 
there were several of the usual torrential tropic rains, 
but possibly to help us the better to celebrate the day 
they were not so many nor so heavy as usual at this time. 

Most of the day was spent quietly on board the 
SpeejackSy where we had our Christmas dinner, the ar- 
tistic culinary crown of that being a huge chocolate 
cake which Bill Soulby, the steward, and our Belgian 
cook, Bert, had baked. 

It had "Merry Christmas'* written in sugary letters 
on the icing, and I had really hated cutting into it, the 
two men had put so much time into its construction 
and decoration. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixvii 

The boat was decorated with leaves and tropical 
things. No holly was available. We further main- 
tained the Christmas atmosphere by an exchange of 
gifts — little things which we were able to pick up in 
Suva at the native shops or purchase direct from the 
Fijians. 

I made each of the men handkerchiefs and they pro- 
fessed to be very much pleased with them. They 
stowed them away and never used them, which may be 
taken as an indication of their truly colossal apprecia- 
tion. 

There was scarcely anything in Fiji that could be 
purchased for Christmas presents, so the things we 
did wrap up very carefully and distribute were more 
or less humorous in character. 

The Speejacks was tied up at dock in Suva, but we 
were never lonesome. Being so close to the centre of 
things, generally, our actions on board the boat were 
about as private as the life of a canary bird. 

When we ate our Christmas dinner we let down the 
shades on the town side, but that did not keep the 
curiosity-laden natives from watching us at dinner, see- 
ing everything we put into our mouths. They lay on 
their stomachs on the pier and peeped under the shades! 

As each dish of our dinner was brought to the table 
we could hear poorly suppressed groans of amazement 
and curiosity from the other side of the shades. Now 
and then we could hear the expression of "vinaka 
vinaka," which means "very good," an expression used 
on all occasions where such words will fit. 



Ixviii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

There was quite a "vinaka" chorus when Bill and 
Bert very proudly brought in their prize cake. 

For music with our meals we had our Victrola going 
on the upper deck, engineered by a mightily pleased 
Fijian. I had bribed him with a stick of trade tobacco 
to stand there and grind it and change records for most 
of the afternoon. 

We had been away from home now a little more than 
four months. Consequently, when, on the day after 
Christmas, two huge packages of mail caught up with 
us there was little else thought of for that day. 

Great excitement reigned throughout the boat. 
Mr. Gowen very seriously tried to be postmaster by 
taking both packages to the saloon, where he sat like 
a king on a throne with the intention of passing it out 
to us piece by piece as he read the addresses; but we 
were too anxious for our mail to permit this deliberation 
on his part, each of us reaching and grabbing a handful, 
no matter to whom it was addressed. 

The consequence was that our anxiety and eagerness 
caused us to take double the time distributing the mail 
than would have been the case otherwise. Our most 
welcome piece of mail was an enormous box of candy, 
the first we had had since leaving home. 

The candy was from friends in Chicago, who were 
with us in spirit all the way of the trip, boxes of candy 
from them here and there in our mail materializing this 
good will of theirs. 

I divided the candy evenly, each of us, including the 
crew, receiving seven pieces. It was our first candy in 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixix 

four months. The boys would bribe one another with 
cigarettes for a certain kind of candy which they liked 
the best. 

It was almost pathetic to see Mr. Rogers bribing Mr. 
Ingraham for a gumdrop held temptingly within his 
vision. He almost offered to sell his soul several times 
on the trip for a chocolate nougat. 

We had planned to sail on December 30 for New 
Zealand and Australia. The whole time we were in 
Fiji we were besieged by people of lengthy maritime 
experience who felt that even our thought of leaving 
would be the height of foolhardiness. 

Finally a delegation of earnest shipping agents called 
on us to explain that this was the height of the hurricane 
season and even large boats were tying up at the dock 
and would not leave for another month. Whether big 
boats or little were liable to be sunk by the typhoons, 
we were travelling on a schedule and our schedule said 
we must start on December 30 on a seven-day run to 
New Zealand. 

So start we did, and on December 30, while the serious 
well-wishers ashore stood shaking their heads over our 
suicidal temerity. 

The sea was rough; as a matter of fact, we stood on 
our ears most of the way, just as we did nearly every- 
where at sea on the entire trip; but it seemed that little 
seas and big seas, typhoons, monsoons, hurricanes and 
windless days meant all the same to the Speejacks, 

To Australia was another week's trip, just a repetition 
of the preceding seven days at sea. Our arrival was 



Ixx THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

fraught with great interest to us, for both in Fiji and 
New Zealand we had met many Australians. Practi- 
cally the first thing they all said was "you will love 
Australia. Sydney has the most beautiful harbour in 
the world. Kipling immortalized it." 

They are boosters of their own country, as flagrant 
in their praise as our native-son Califomians, only more 
so. 

News of our coming had preceded us and we were 
met by a flotilla of boats from various yacht clubs in 
Sydney. Australians all love the water. Perhaps that 
is because they are so far from any other civilization 
that to get anywhere they must go by boat. 

On our arrival in Sydney mail was delivered to us 
again, among the letters received there being a number 
from Australians who knew of our coming. One was 
written by a former soldier in the Australian expedition- 
ary forces who must have thought we were very philan- 
thropically inclined, because he offered to let us have a 
beautiful set of chessmen, which he said he possessed, 
for a stated sum of money, the pieces to be returned to 
him at a later date when he could redeem them. 

The thought of playing chess at sea only brought 
groans from all of us. Another letter was from two 
men who said they were bank clerks and explained 
that they had always longed to meet an American girl, 
because they were such good sports, and they thought 
it would be nice if I would have tea with them some 
afternoon. 

They did not seem to feel the same toward the Amer- 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixxi 

lean men and no mention was made of Mr. Gowen. 
They suggested that I telephone if 5 o'clock would be 
convenient, and if so, would I not come and wait in the 
corridor of the bank building where they were em- 
ployed, because their hours would make it inconvenient 
for them to call on the Speejacks. 

I am repeatedly asked why I did not have a woman 
companion on the trip, especially when I admit that I 
would have enjoyed, and really craved, such companion- 
ship. The reason is simple enough. An unmarried girl 
could not go and we did not have cabin space for a 
married couple. Our only guest room was occupied 
by Mr. Ingraham and Mr. Rogers, and their photo- 
graphic apparatus was extended over half the boat. 

Australia has a population of five million persons, and 
it is remarkable what they have done with a territory 
so large in so short a time, when one compares it with 
America and its population of more than 100,000,000. 
Sydney and Melbourne are the two largest cities and 
there is a tremendous rivalry between them. 

People from Sydney dilate long and earnestly on the 
beautiful harbour and the gayety of night life in Sydney 
(the bitter truth), and people in Melbourne rave just 
as long and just as earnestly about Melbourne, the wide 
streets and the beauty, and call Sydney a city of cow 
paths. It was very easy to distinguish Sydneyites 
from those hailing from Melbourne. 

Almost all Australians love America — so they say — 
but I am afraid some of the things they love in America 
are things which we class seriously here at home as vul- 



Ixxii THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

garisms. Australians are the most hospitable people 
in the world. I feel sure that there is no one among 
us who will deny that. They were so hospitable that 
by the time we left Sydney we were most awfully tired 
out. 

We were quite an attraction in Sydney. The dock 
was always thronged with people anxious to see the 
Americans and their boat. We almost had to fight our 
way ashore whenever we left it. Many parties were 
given for us, all of which were very interesting; but we 
did the same sort of things there that we might have 
done in America, and ate the same food. 

Sydney or Melbourne or any of the cities of Australia 
might be any Western city of the United States. We 
were there in January and part of February, which is 
summer time in Australia. Surf bathing is one of the 
most popular sports and racing is as popular in Aus- 
tralia as it is in New Zealand. Every man, woman, 
and child goes to the races. 

Among the many duties which had been assigned to 
me as one of the mates of the good ship Speejacks were 
the clerical, literary, and secretarial functions. I was to 
write the letters for the whole party, relieve them of 
that responsibility, and keep the diary, as well as the 
"ship's log." 

I agreed to this partition of the boat's labours inno- 
cently enough, never dreaming it would prove a hard- 
ship — in fact, the next thing to an impossibility. 

By the time we reached Panama I discovered with 
some dismay what I was in for. It was impossible. 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixxiii 

utterly out of the question, to write, either with pen or 
folding typewriter, while at sea. 

When we were in port it was hectic. There was 
always so much to be seen, so much to be done, and 
there was little time in which to do all this. 

At each port we visited we made new friends. We 
were always being entertained, we were always taking 
pictures, and all this meant correspondence. My 
friends at home, flocks of them, to whom I had promised 
letters and pictures! 

In port, with the boat tied at the dock, in civilized 
or aboriginal surroundings, there were hundreds of 
curious persons clambering about the boat, whether we 
wanted them there or not. It was almost impossible 
to take a bath on board the boat when in port, let alone 
try to sit down and think consecutively enough to write 
letters or diaries. 

By the time we reached Australia there was an ap- 
palling reckoning. We all agreed that we needed some- 
one along to write the story of the trip. It was when 
we were in Brisbane that we definitely decided upon 
getting someone and we were fortunate enough to 
secure a brilliant young Australian, Dale Collins. 

He was a special writer for the Melbourne Herald and 
lived in that city, two days and two nights from Bris- 
bane. 

Never were we overburdened with closet space on 
the Speejacks. Wherever we went new treasures were 
acquired, and had to be stuck away somewhere so as 
not to tangle up with our feet. At the time of Mr. 



Ixxiv THE LOG OF THE SPEEJACKS 

CoUins's advent there was very little room in the 
whole boat for him to stow his clothes. 

We finally scratched out a little locker space in a 
drawer and Bill Soulby, our general factotum on board, 
cleared a deep closet in the saloon that opened into the 
side of the boat. It was as dark as pitch in there and 
Collins named it his "little inferno.*' When he wanted 
something from his little inferno he would get down on 
hands and knees and dive into the darkness, bringing 
out all sorts of unexpected things. 

ril never forget one day when we were going ashore 
for luncheon and Dale felt the need of a fresh collar. 
To the little inferno we rushed and there was half an 
hour of concentrated effort before anything remotely 
resembling a collar came to light. It was like a grab 
bag. Dale and I would reach in and grab while the rest 
of our party sat or stood around us betting on what 
would come out next. Neckties, shirts, pyjamas, hose, 
pictures, books — everything, almost, came forth but a 
collar. He finally remembered that he'd put the collars 
some place else and acquired one just in time to allow 
us all to make the luncheon. 

Most of us were good sailors — we had to be — and it 
was with some feeling of alarm that we fared forth from 
Brisbane with our newest recruit, for he had never been 
to sea. We assured him that he would undoubtedly 
adore the experience, but we didn't feel that way at 
all. 

He was to take a watch with the rest of us and he 
became very enthusiastic at the thought of guiding what 



NEW YORK TO AUSTRALIA Ixxv 

he poetically called the Speejacks — "The Little White 
Bird '* — through the stillness of a black night, and so we 
tried to scare up a lot of enthusiasm that we ourselves 
had parked back at Jamaica. 
But let him tell the story. 



SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 



Sea-Tracks of the Speejacks 

CHAPTER I 

Hots d'Oeuvre 

For month upon month the unceasing breathing of 
the sea beneath us; for month upon month sailing 
through blue days, a tiny world floating in a universe of 
sky and ocean; for month upon month flitting in like a 
white bird to strange ports and strange peoples where 
the passenger steamers never go and where the only 
other callers are crazy schooners; for month upon 
month living on such close terms with the seven seas 
that we learned to love them with a love greater even 
than that of sailormen— all these things and much be- 
sides were* our portion on the Speejacks when for the 
first time a motor boat encircled the globe. 

A wonderful girl and eleven men on a 98-foot cruiser 
of 64 tons sailing to all the places you look at on the 
map for the glamour of the very names — here was 
romance, magic, and all that and more. And in the 
telling of it, to do the task justice, should be the music 
of the phosphorescent waves slapping along the sides, 
should be the throbbing of skin drums beaten by naked 
savages, the steady creak of the chain as the yacht 
strained at her anchor behind the white teeth of coral 

reef, the wind shouting in the palms and — finest music 

1 



2 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

of all — the golden voice of the bell that told of a night 
"trick" on the wheel ended and gave you back again 
to the soundest of sleeps on the padded hatchway on 
that even swaying deck. 

Listen, if you are weary of pavements, to the splendid 
anthem of sea ways which our route sings: Jamaica, 
Panama, Paumotus, Tahiti, Fiji, Samoa, Noumea, 
Australia, New Guinea, the Solomons, New Britain, the 
Admiralty and Hermit Islands, former German and 
Dutch New Guinea, the Spice Isles, Celebes, Java, 
Singapore, Seychelles Islands, the Red Sea, Cairo, 
the Mediterranean, Spain, and thence home to New 
York again. And that is only a catalogue. 

You must remember, too, that we went where we 
willed; the steamer ways were not our ways; we blun- 
dered cheerily along where no charts were; always we 
had the sense of thrill, the knowledge that we were 
dicing with the ocean and that bad fortune meant an 
abrupt conclusion to the high adventure. 

A thousand wise heads in all the ports of the world 
vowed that the next stage would be our last, a score of 
times it seemed that their predictions might be fulfilled, 
but always our little sea bird splashed from crest to 
crest and came to the haven where she would be, and 
the gramophone in the wheelhouse and a whisky and 
soda welcomed still another pilot to take us in. 
, But there is ever so much to be told. 

If Fortune, in addition to giving him the means, 
had not endowed Mr. Albert Y. Gowen, of Chicago, 
with a taste for yachting, and if his doctors had not 



HORS D'OEUVRE 3 

decided he should take a rest, the cruise would not have 
been, and all of us, good brother squirrels, would have 
stayed on the same little spinning wheel with you, 
treading our accustomed rungs. Occasionally, how- 
ever, the stars are kind, and then things happen — our 
cruise, for instance. 

Mr. Gowen had just built the Speejacks and a trip 
round the world in her seemed the simple and logical 
thing. As a matter of fact it was neither simple nor 
logical despite all its charms. There is more trouble in 
carrying through such an enterprise than there is in 
most businesses, and more foresight is needed. There 
are a thousand details to attend to. Such trifles, for 
instance, as arranging four months in advance that 
5,000 gallons of gasoline shall be at an out-of-the-way 
island where it is an unknown commodity; deciding just 
what route is possible with a cruising radius of 2,000 
miles; keeping all hands contented on a ship 98 feet 
long where there are none of the relaxations which 
fight boredom on liners. Be sure none of us envied 
our host. All we had to do was to look worried in sym- 
pathy while he did the worrying. 

It suited him, however. With nothing to do it was 
highly probable he would have exploded owing to an 
excess of bottled-up energy. 

You do not acquire yachts by eating the lotus and 
by day dreams. 

Let me tell you about this little world of ours which 
measured 98 feet long by 17 feet beam by 6 feet draft. 
It was a small world, but a very modem one, and often 



4 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the incongruity of our presence in some glimmering 
lagoon, where only black men were, struck home upon 
us. There we would sit in our cosy mahogany-panelled 
dining saloon with its pink-shaded electric lights, eating 
fresh meat from our ice chest cooked by a real chef, 
while electric fans purred, and in the wheelhouse above 
the gramophone would be pouring a concert into the 
receiver of the wireless telephone for the entertainment 
of some ship 1,000 miles away. Cramped though we 
were, our world had all the conveniences of an up-to- 
date home in a city. 

And meanwhile, jabbering in their canoes alongside, 
woolly headed savages offered us spears for trade 
tobacco! 

Built by the Consolidated Shipbuilding Company of 
Morris Heights (U. S. A.) the Speejacks was a model 
for her size. She was of staunch wood, with a copper 
bottom and teak decks; her only motive power, two 
250 h. p. Winton engines burning gasoline. True, we 
had a stubby mast and could rig a sail, but that only 
served to hold her steady and would not have given us a 
knot. Fourteen knots she could make, but her cruising 
speed was eight, and at that her consumption was 
roughly two gallons to the mile. Add to that consump- 
tion ever-increasing prices and freight on gasoline as we 
left civilization behind, and multiply, and you have 
some idea of what one little bill amounted to. 

Astern were two comfortable staterooms, one for 
Mr. and Mrs. Gowen, and the other for the three of us 
who were members of the party. Here also was a 



HORS D^OEUVRE S 

bathroom which made the eyes of dwellers in the wil- 
derness grow round with envy. Amidships was the 
engine room where the never-troublesome engines 
purred their song as they drove our twin screws, next 
the wheelhouse with its wireless telephony and teleg- 
raphy, and the saloon; forward the crew's quarters and 
the anchors and electric windlass. Telephones linked 
up all parts of the ship. There were radiators and 
electric fans, an armoury with two post-war machine 
guns, a galley where pots and pans performed strange 
antics, a searchlight, oh, everything! 

We wasted no space. Under every floor, beneath the 
stairs, behind the walls, were storerooms where were 
hidden supplies for two years, spare parts, and all the 
little things which must be thought of if you are going 
where the very thing you will need is not to be found. 

It was a fine Httle world, but, if anything had hap- 
pened to it, the end of our other world, so far as we were 
concerned, would probably have arrived simultaneously. 

We had lifebelts, it is true, and a strange '^gadget" Hke 
a huge cream puff lashed on the roof of the deckhouse, 
but there were only two boats. One was a tiny dinghy 
which was very useful in harbour, but only held six at 
a pinch even there, and the other was a Newfoundland 
dory which stood upon the deck and was used as a 
storeroom for everything which could not be put any- 
where else. We thought it just as well to use it for 
that, since it is highly doubtful if we could have got it 
over the side in any sea at all, and, anyway, there were 
no rowlocks. 



6 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Briefly, there you have the SpeejackSy but the descrip- 
tion leaves you with no idea of the white beauty of her 
— a beauty only to be appreciated fully by sitting aft 
and watching that 100 feet of perfectly modelled deck 
rising and dipping to the blue waves, or by standing in 
the bow on a moonlight night and feeling her sliding 
through the silken gloom like a glimmering mermaid. 
To appreciate her fully, you should have glimpsed her 
through palm fronds coming back from a long day under 
the tropic sun, or drowsed through peaceful days and 
nights with her as a cradle rocked by the hand of 
the ocean. She was always trim and neat, with the 
freshness of a debutante for all the rough tracks she 
trod. 

There were moments, however, when her beauty was 
veiled. Get that little ship plunging into a black gale 
and a shouting night, staggering down the walls of 
water, climbing to the crest, pitching like a thing pos- 
sessed, rolling until you thought that nothing could pre- 
vent her turning right over — ^then you clung to anything 
that offered a hold, you felt like a crucified fly when 
you took the wheel, you snatched a cup of coffee in the 
wheelhouse and when you crawled carefully aft to try 
to steal some sleep you were flung off the padded hatch- 
way on to the distinctly unpadded deck no matter how 
you might wedge yourself on. 

Then, I confess, you were inclined to wonder whether 
this love of yours was not a wicked shrew. You 
thought long, long thoughts of firm green hills and 
brown earth — and you clung on in all your clothes 



HORS D'OEUVRE 7 

through the long night and looked out across the gray 
sea of dawn with longing eyes, reckoning the miles to 
port. But seldom a drop of water aboard save spray. 
She rode the waves with a gull's grace. 

These times were rare. The ocean, I think, was 
amused by our impudence. He smiled, and let us 
through. He did not deign to hit one our size. For 
us, most often, seas of purple calm, or little, white- 
capped waves which held no threat. 

But always, you must remember, our world rotated 
on its own axis as it rotated round the globe. There 
was never the feeling of solidity you have on a liner on 
calm days. Always the lift of the waves, always the 
ocean's breathing, always a feeling that the ship was 
alive. 

Perhaps it was this intimacy, and the fact that we 
all had work to do, which made boredom walk the 
plank. I have never known days to pass so quickly. 
We didn't read much, we yarned, we stood our turns at 
the wheel, and the sun fled across the heavens at break- 
neck speed. Of the twenty-four hours, twenty-three 
were spent in the open air. We slept on deck and lived 
on deck. Those of us who were on the wheel had two 
hours on and six off. That may sound easy, but the 
two hours seemed to recur with amazing frequency. 
You had no sooner come off than somebody was tapping 
your shoulder and announcing, "Your watch!" 

There was no delay in answering that summons. It 
was the supreme unwritten law that you should be 
ready to relieve on the bell's stroke. That, and no 



8 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

drinking of liquor until the anchor was down, were 
about our only commandments. We kept them both. 

Revelations, for a landsman, those hours at the 
wheel — an ordeal at first, a trial in rough weather, but 
fascinating when the ocean smiled. 

Naturally enough we did not love the night watches. 
To be shaken out of a sound sleep and to stumble for- 
ward to stand for two hours fighting to keep awake 
and to hold her head on that flighty point of the com- 
pass was not always a matter for rejoicing. 

But I remember many watches of magic. 

One morning in particular, away off the north coast 
of New Guinea, standing the four to six. When I came 
on the night was all soft darkness, the yacht seemed to 
be sliding through the heart of a cocoon of black silk. 
Here and there a wave gleamed into phosphorescence, 
and the bow wash glowed on either hand, singing, 
singing. In the wheelhouse deep velvet gloom stabbed 
by the golden shaft from the binnacle, that warm heart 
of the ship upon which all your attention centred. 

On the bench behind you the captain breathed with 
the steadiness of a weary man who has found sleep, and 
the luminous clock showed like a spider web. The 
hands on my wristlet watch glimmered faintly. Stand- 
ing there in pyjamas only, it was pleasantly warm. 

Ahead was a wall of night into which the dim-seen 
bow cleaved steadily. Big stars looked down as oranges 
on a fairy tree. The engineer was the only other soul 
awake; the rest slept in huddled heaps on the soft 
hatches. Absolute silence save for the purr of the 



HORS D'OEUVRE 9 

engines and the laughter of the water. I remember the 
course was due west and it was a fine feeling for a lands- 
man, this of being entirely responsible for our little 
world, as she throbbed in pursuit of the sun. And 
there was time for long thoughts. 

But the sun had gained a lap. 

Almost imperceptibly you became aware of the light 
which was running after the yacht from the east. You 
looked about and were surprised to find, of a sudden, 
that the sea had become tangible and was billowing on 
either hand in dark folds. Astern the light had grown 
stronger and was striking diamonds from the wave tips. 
The binnacle glow turned sickly yellow, the luminous 
clock and the wristlet watch signalled without the aid 
of their phosphorous. The binnacle light died; the sea 
turned silver; flying fish splashed shimmering tracks; 
ushered in by the herald of a new-born breeze, the 
triumphant sun sprang above the horizon. 

Four bells! 

"Cap, Cap, wake up! Your watch. Cap!'' 

A long drink of water from the bag dangling on the 
rail, a glance round the deck peopled now by plain 
chaps sleeping soundly — rather than the mysterious 
huddled corpses of the night — and then back to the 
cool cushions astern, and sleep claiming you again tri- 
umphantly despite the glory of the sunrise. 

I can remember a hundred eves of wonder and moms 
of magic equalling this. I merely mention this particu- 
lar case that you may catch the atmosphere of this trip 
of ours, that you may feel with me its charm. 



10 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

And, ah! the strange places we saw and the queer folk 
and wild folk and hospitable folk we met. Everywhere 
our adventure and the yacht were talismans which 
opened all doors for us. It was as though the whole 
world had decided that we should have a good time, 
and that we should see everything there was to be 
seen. 

Our clothes, ragged trousers and open soft shirts, our 
feet bare, our beds on deck, our covering at night pyja- 
mas only, our appetites tremendous, our good-fellowship 
standing a heavy strain — thus was our life. 

Sometimes I used to wonder whether we were not all 
schoolboys day-dreaming and doomed to wake again to 
the ordinary round. 

The interest and the envy of the less-fortunate squir- 
rels still treading their wheel were remarkable. At each 
port we had requests from people to be allowed to join 
us, some of the letters being pitiful in their expression of 
the wander-fever. Others, again, were laughable. We 
formed quite a collection. 

"It is my wish to join your party as cabin boy,'' 
wrote a young American. " I am the champion ukelele 
player of Arkansas, and am also delightful with the 
piano. I would be prepared to polish brass all morning, 
and would guarantee to entertain you and Mrs. Gowen 
for the rest of the day.'' 

"It has always been my wish to enter a gentleman's 
home," wrote an Australian girl, "but I think your 
yacht would be nicer. As my father was at sea I should 
be a good sailor, and I would be able to be of much value 



HORS D'OEUVRE 11 

to you in the sewing on of buttons and other tasks in 
addition to being a nice companion/' 

There were hundreds such as these, but the climax 
came with a note sent to Mrs. Gowen at Cairns, Queens- 
land. The writer explained that she had read in the 
papers that Mrs. Gowen was a "real good sort" and as 
she had a millionaire for a husband she would doubtless 
be prepared to send a cheque for £2,000 to a hearty ad- 
mirer of her and her pluck. That was all — no reason, 
no sad story. It seems hard to believe, but it is a 
fact, nevertheless. 

And when we reached the East the offers from babu 
scribes and others to serve in every capacity flooded in 
upon us, couched in language so flowery that it was 
often very difficult to understand just what "your hum- 
ble, obedient, and respectable servant'* wanted. 

Yes, there was something in our little adventure 
which appealed to innate love of the wide sea and 
strange lands which is in every heart. And, looking 
back over it all, we voyagers were indeed to be envied. 

Happy were we on our sea-tracks round the world. 



CHAPTER II 

Across the Wide Pacific 

When a man has a poor story to tell a little falsehood 
is a splendid thing, but when he has a good one it is to 
be frowned upon. For that reason, though it would 
have been the easiest thing in the world to mislead you, 
I shall confess that I joined the Speejacks in Australia, 
and for the earlier part of the trip I rely upon the 
stories told in endless yarnings by starshine and sun- 
shine and will repeat the main facts briefly. 

Give me credit for this candour. 

How would you feel if, some morning, a telegram ar- 
rived without any warning which jerked you right out 
of everyday life, giving you eight hours to make the 
break? That is what happened to me. I had read of 
the cruise as you read of so many other delightful things 
which don't happen in our lives. There came then, on 
the strength of a timely word from a good friend, the 
bombshell of the invitation to join the party. 

Thereafter pandemonium for eight hours, and from 
the hurly-burly I emerged without a care in the world 
and one of the Speejacks. 

You must meet the rest as I came to know them in 
the months that followed. 

Of Mr. Gowen you know something already. He 
was very American and very keen and he spoiled us all. 

12 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 13 

Of course, as the owner he was criticized at times, but 
he was the best of hosts and employers. People who 
came aboard expecting to find a grave and serious 
owner looked surprised when they were introduced to the 
youthful, unaffected chap, who was hailed as "A. Y/' 
on all hands. He was educated at St. Paul's School 
and at Harvard. He is in the cement business and has 
other big business interests, but he didn't allow such 
things to make him pompous. He held the record for 
promptness in coming on watch, allowed all hands 
down to the cook to try to make him poor at poker, 
and in every way was one of us. Personally, I do not 
envy the owner on a long cruise on a small yacht. The 
task is more difficult than it sounds. But A. Y. spent 
the money and did the worrying with a good heart. 
He was even the banker for all aboard — and nobody 
needed a passbook to check payments and withdrawals. 
In motor-boating circles his name is well known as an 
owner of "speed" boats, and cruisers, and the present 
Speejacks is the fifth in her line, each being a little 
larger and more elaborate than her predecessor. 

Of Mrs. Gowen — "Jean" to us three boys aft, and 
Jean to my readers since it sounds more friendly — I say 
in all honesty she was the best "man" aboard. She 
was pretty and full of charm, she had no idea of fear, 
but she was all femininity, she danced, and she stood 
her trick at the wheel when she desired and steered as 
well as any of us. Somehow — ^but you must remember 
I am young and impressionable — she always reminded 
me of the heroine of a Clarke Russell sea story. 



14 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Ira J. Ingraham ("Jay") and Bernard F. Rogers, Jr. 
(" Bumey ") both of Chicago, completed with myself the 
party aft. Ingraham, an expert cinematographer who 
filmed the world as we went and whose work should be 
notable, and Rogers, a personal friend of Mr. Gowen's 
and an amateur photographer of standing — and playboy 
of the party, our social lion and inevitable annexer of all 
the prettiest girls — two of the best fellows you would 
ever wish to meet. And as for myself — but modesty 
forbids! We were all as members of the same family, 
knowing each other by our Christian or nicknames. 

On a yachting cruise one of the greatest problems 
inevitably is the crew. They grow weary and wish to 
be done with it; they must be soothed without being 
spoiled ; infinite tact is needed to handle them. On our 
long voyage many changes were made at ports all 
round the world and even the navigators came and 
went. 

At first, you mightn't have appreciated the **Cap*' 
who was our navigator for the greater part of the trip. 
He was an Australian who had been at sea since boy- 
hood but who was still young to hold his master's ticket. 
A weather-beaten man of the sea with a hot head in 
ordinary times, but the best temper in the world when 
the annoying emergency or the crisis arose. The night 
I nearly wrecked the ship — ^but that comes later. He 
was a splendid navigator who worried on though sorely 
tried by his "land-sailors." When we took the wheel 
we would whisper the right course, and announce in 
loud tones the wrong one. That would bring the Cap 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 15 

— ^who should have been sound asleep — to his feet in 
a moment calling down fire upon our heads. I don't 
know how many hours of the twenty-four he was off 
duty. About two, I fancy. 

Jack, the chief engineer, who supervised the building 
of the boat and loved and knew every inch of her, was a 
sad man away from home, and a true American. If he 
had grown a beard his face would have made a good 
portrait of Uncle Sam. 

"Car* and Oscar were his assistants from Australia, 
**Car' also working wonders with the wireless. Bill 
and Bert looked after our appetites — Bill, an English- 
American who served with the tanks in the war and 
the shrewdest wit and philosopher you would wish to 
meet, and Bert, a moon-faced Belgian, who suffered the 
tortures of the damned through sea-sickness down in 
his galley. 

Last but not least, Louis, our sailor, picked up in 
Tahiti, whither he had gone on a French barque, but 
where — in his own words: "Ah, sir, the girls have such 
kind, kind hearts'' — he had settled down as a sail- 
maker. Louis, as his family had always been, was a 
sailor. The sea was the beginning and end of life. 
He would sit for hours watching its smiling surface, 
finding a never-ending thrill in the glimpse of a shark's 
fin. In detecting such things his eyes were better than 
a telescope. He was brown and clean-cut and it was a 
joy to yam with him. He modelled wonderful boats 
and put them in bottles; he painted fine pictures of 
ships though he had never had a lesson. 



16 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

In the little French fishing village his mother was 
waiting for him. 

**But, sir, I writes not to her at all. For why? 
Supposing that I should write to her from here and not 
from there, she would cry in herself saying * Where is 
my Louis?' But presently I shall go home and knock 
at the door. *Who is there?' 'Me!' 'Who is me?' 
'Louis!' Mon Dieu, then he is fine! Fine!" 

These then were the cosmopolitan people of our 
little world. 

And what a long way it had come. 

On August 21, 1921, the Speejacks left New York, 
and, though friends mourned for all aboard as lost to 
life, the party felt as cheerful as trippers, little realizing 
the task that lay ahead. Down the American coast 
she ran, and left the States behind with the golden 
lights of Miami blinking against the sunset. Jamaica 
came over the horizon. Jamaica with its charm and 
colour, somewhat darkened by the threat of a hurricane. 
The storm missed the island, however, and, after this 
first taste of the tropics, the yacht went on to the 
Panama Canal, where she slid through the giant locks, a 
midget hidden beneath the stern of a great liner. 

Here the party was agreeably surprised to see a beau- 
tiful steam yacht also flying the "Stars and Stripes." 
Greetings were exchanged and she proved to be the 
Aloha, owned by Commodore Arthur Curtis James of 
New York. When we learned that she was also on a 
trip round the world by a different route her size made 
the voyagers on the tiny Speejacks feel most envious. 



'\r 




\ 




The hat makers of Bora-Bora Island, one of the Tahitian group. 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 17 

At Panama an elderly Peruvian oil magnate was 
much attracted by Jean, asked her husband's per- 
mission to court his "daughter," and begged to be 
allowed to present her with a priceless Peruvian 
"mummy." The course of true love was as hard as 
usual, and both propositions were declined with thanks. 

Now began one of the biggest adventures of the trip; 
the tow across the southern Pacific by the United States 
Shipping Board steamer Eastern Queen. This is said 
to be the longest tow ever undertaken and it certainly 
felt so, for the 4,400 miles seemed to be interminable. 

A ten-inch Manilla rope cradle was run round the 
ship and diving, spinning, and jerking at the end of a 
six-inch tow rope the voyage started. It was very like 
hell — monotonous, uncomfortable, depressing. But 
there was no other way. You cannot cross 5,000 miles 
of ocean with a cruising radius of 2,000 miles. 

It was also a great test of one's qualities as a sailor. 
One day, when a moderately calm sea offered a chance, 
sailors from the Eastern Queen were sent over to make 
the cradle more secure. They became deadly seasick. 
In rough weather members of the tramp's crew set to 
watch the tow-lines became sick from merely seeing the 
amazing gyrations of the tiny craft astern. What then 
was it like on the yacht? I have heard that answered 
in quite unprintable language! Cooking was almost 
out of the question, food was snatched in the wheel- 
house, the days tossed by in a delirium of motion. 

On October 3 she rolled across the Equator and all 
hands wore overcoats, it was so cold and squally. 



18 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A week later an unpleasant surprise arrived in the 
form of a wireless message picked up by the Eastern 
Queen which asked that a watch should be kept for the 
Speejacks which was reported a derelict by a steamer 
which had sighted wreckage. The news had been pub- 
lished with scare headings in all the American papers 
and had caused great distress among the folks at 
home. 

''Speejacks safely towing astern!" wirelessed the 
Eastern Queen in response to the broadcast message 
sent out by the United States authorities. 

Water supplies were running short eighteen days out 
and all hands including Jean were limited to a half 
gallon a day for all purposes. It seemed that there was 
no end to this desert of the sea, but it came at last when 
on the twenty-first day the Eastern Queen wirelessed 
that they were to cut the tow rope and make for Ta- 
karoa, an atoll in the Lower Paumotu group. The 
rope was hacked through, farewells were exchanged, 
and the little yacht and her escort parted. The motors 
purred into life and away the Speejacks headed, making 
the best time she could and praying for good weather 
for the 100-mile run, since the water tanks were empty. 
Only twenty gallons of distilled water remained. 

At midnight, to make matters worse, the rudder 
cable, strained by the long tow, went out of order, 
and the emergency tiller had to be rigged, Rogers and 
Ingraham standing down in the bilges holding it in 
place with their toes. Down there in that black and 
noisome dark their task was a hard one, but for three 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 19 

hours, until the damage was repaired, they kept the 
vigil. 

Be sure that in the morning Takaroa, floating like a 
wreath on the waters, was a good sight, indeed. More 
welcome by the fact that here was a place typical of the 
romantic eastern Pacific. Here were kindly brown 
men and women who danced and sang, entertained 
royally, and presented pigs and coconuts as gifts; here. 
Captain Winnie Brander on his time-worn schooner, 
Roberta, type of the favourite character in the South 
Seas romances; here, a quaint, fat chief and much feast- 
ing; here, Jean and Rogers treading the latest Broadway 
steps on the white coral sands in the brilliant beam of 
the searchlight. 

Many stranger, wilder places have we seen since, but 
this first impression stands clear in the log of the Spec- 
jacks. 

But there was no water at Takaroa. The island de- 
pended on rain and it had not sufficient for its own 
needs. The only thing to do, therefore, was to load 
up with green coconuts and make a dash for Tahiti. 
That was a run of 265 miles, and it was risky, but al- 
ready the luck of the Speejacks was making itself felt. 

Of course, they scraped through, and it was equally 
inevitable that all hands should fall in love with Tahiti. 
But that magical place has been described so often that 
you should know all about its charms. I have less- 
known places to tell you about. But you must hear 
the romantic story of the wedding. 
. In Tahiti there is a French law that no divorced per- 



20 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

son may re-marry within six months. An American 
citizen came to A. Y. flying pitiful signals of distress, 
and announcing himself, as a further claim to aid, as 
the father of a well-known baseball player. It seemed 
he was in love with a girl who had been divorced a short 
time before. He wanted to marry her at the earliest 
moment, and suggested that the ceremony could be 
performed by the captain if the yacht was taken outside 
the three-mile limit. 

He brushed away all doubts and objections, and ulti- 
mately had his wish. 

The wedding party arrived looking its best, and the 
bow was turned out for the open sea. Now, as I have 
told you, the Speejacks is not a steady boat, as no small 
boat is in a rolling sea, and as soon as she felt the 
ocean's kisses she began to dance merrily. 

Oh, the gloom that descended upon the merry wed- 
ding party! Oh, the pallor of faces! Oh, the pitiful 
condition of a bridesmaid who can sit on her new hat 
and not care a scrap! 

Jack Lewis, who was then captain, read the wedding 
service. He had studied it carefully and did the task 
most conscientiously — so conscientiously, in fact, that 
in the same tone he read all the parentheses giving the 
instructions for the ceremony — "Here the bridegroom 
takes the bride's hand" — and so on. 

Very seriously Jack asked who gave the bride away. 

"I do!" said a man stepping forward very eagerly. 
There was something in his tone which — well, ani^way, 
he was her first husband! 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 21 

The ceremony had to be interrupted several times for 
the convenience of the chief actors, and altogether they 
went through as much as the hero and the heroine of a 
novel in the cause of love. 

But there was a fine wedding breakfast served sub- 
sequently at the home of the bride's first husband, who 
had kindly placed the house at the disposal of the 
couple for the honeymoon! 

A Chinese was beheaded in Papeete in the presence of 
200 interested townspeople on the day the yacht sailed 
on its 1,300 mile run to Pago Pago, American Samoa. 
Perhaps that brought bad luck, for on the second day 
out with only a margin of 100 miles* supply of fuel in 
the tanks, wild weather was encountered, weather ap- 
proaching a hurricane. The tiny ship was lost in the 
mountainous seas. You must remember she has no 
weight and no length. She never cuts through a wave 
but just climbs up and down them. She is not able to 
slice along the crests as the liners do. 

Great seas buffeted her hither and thither, and all 
hands crouched on the hatch in the shelter of the wheel- 
house while the deck ran green (a thing which happened 
seldom) and the dinghy slung on davits touched the 
waves with each roll. It would have been impossible 
for her to go a degree further, you would have said, 
without rolling right over. 

I can well imagine what misery those days and nights 
were. I do not need the emphatic language of Jay or 
Bill to make that point clear to me. And a temporary 
navigator, who only spoke French, was in charge! 



22 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A great wave broke over the ship and short-circuited 
the electric system, so that the compass was plunged 
into sudden darkness. Oil lamps were found and 
rigged in the binnacle, but nothing could be done to 
replace the other lights, and the yacht staggered on, a 
dim, sea-whipped ghost. 

Two days later on a six-days' run she reeled into the 
beautiful little harbour of Pago Pago to be greeted with 
delight by the American naval officers and others who 
are stationed there. Those days almost made up for 
the run across, I am assured. The Americans there 
were justly proud of the work which is being done by 
the U. S. Navy for the natives of Samoa. There is a 
hospital solely for their use here, on the upkeep of which 
$100,000 is spent yearly. The institution is so much 
appreciated that such baptismal names as "Sick-house 
Samoa'' are common among the native children. 
Captain W. Evans, the Acting Governor, took the party 
on his annual tour of inspection, and many interesting 
pictures of Samoan customs were secured. 

Apia, former German Samoa, now under the mandate 
of New Zealand, was the next stage. Vailima, Steven- 
son's home, and the bitter grief of the local inhabitants 
at prohibition introduced by the law rulers, seem to 
have been the outstanding impressions, but the cruise 
nearly ended here, for the anchor dragged in a gale 
and the yacht was barely saved from going ashore. 
There followed a 600-mile run to Fiji past Good Hope 
Island, which is also known as Tin Can Island by reason 
of the fact that steamers anchor far out and fling the 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 23 

mails overboard in a tin which also contains biscuits as 
a reward for the native who comes out to fetch them. 

A book could be written about the experiences in Fiji, 
where under the care of Mr. James J. Davis, a well- 
known local trader, they saw that fascinating island 
very fully. They stayed there eleven days and it was 
all very wonderful. First there were the fire-walkers 
of Bequa, who, after much ceremony, strolled across a 
sixteen-foot oven of white-hot stones and whose feet 
looked none the worse for the experience. Within 
twenty feet the heat became uncomfortable, and 
what it must have been like underfoot is hard to 
imagine. No wonder scientists are puzzled. 

There was much feasting when such dainties as raw 
fish and turtle flappers were served, much drinking of 
the national drink, kava, which is made from a root 
and, though consumed with great pomp, tastes very 
much like soapy water, and endless mekes at which 
the singing and dancing went on until daybreak. 

A. Y. was presented with a whale's tooth, a very 
signal gift conferring on him definite powers, and the 
party met many such native chiefs as Ratu Eppeli and 
Ratu Sukuna, perfect hosts and educated gentlemen, 
though in the evening they wore a dinner suit which 
was perfectly proper down to the waist, and then turned 
into a lava-lava, or native kilt, beneath which showed a 
pair of black legs and bare feet. 

A ten-day canoe journey down the Wainibuka River, 
sleeping at night in native huts on mats spread on the 
floor, eating native food and watching native dances, 



24 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

was an outstanding event, and, in fact, the whole of the 
stay in Fiji was picturesque, and Jay kept his camera 
busy recording it all on thousands of feet of film. 

The anchor came rattling up again, and the bow was 
headed for Noumea, capital of the island of New 
Caledonia. The SOO-mile voyage through rough seas 
brought the yacht to Noumea on New Year's Day, only 
to be held up in the harbour for two days owing to all 
the officials making holiday. Alongside was a craft 
which looked strangely familiar. Enquiries were made, 
and it proved to be Jack London's Snark, on which he 
made his Pacific cruise, and which to-day is a trader, 
and barely recognizable through her dirt. 

The barometer fell suddenly here, and a great gale 
sprang up. Full steam ahead was ordered and the 
yacht crept out from among the mosquito fleet— which 
subsequently was sadly battered about by the storm — 
and found a safe anchorage. Again disaster had been 
averted by a hair's breadth, for if A. Y. had not hurried 
back to the ship at the first sign of trouble she would 
have been driven ashore. 

In Noumea there are more deer than there are people. 
They are hunted on a wholesale scale, and do so much 
damage that a Government reward of a franc is given 
for every tail brought in. It was more like massacre 
than sport, but the champagne breakfast which the 
hospitable Frenchman served and the excitement pro- 
vided by so many targets made it worth while. 

Again across heavy seas the little white bird fluttered 
on, and came through the high cliff gates of Port Jack- 



ACROSS THE WIDE PACIFIC 25 

son to Sydney, Australia, and its wonderful harbour. 
Of the good times here there is no need to tell. There 
was much hospitality and sight-seeing and dancing — 
but it had all been earned by that 13,000-mile run 
across the Pacific. 

Now, at the real heart of the trip, on the threshold 
of the back door of the world, on the way to the isles of 
the primitive, I can carry on the tale for myself. 



CHAPTER III 

Garlanded Islands, Blackfellows, and a Beachcomber 

For a thousand miles the little coral insects have 
built a garden along the coast of Queensland, Australia, 
fencing it off from the Pacific with the Great Barrier 
Reef. Behind that wall of theirs islands float like bou- 
quets on the water, for day after day you sail across a 
sea all garlanded and gay with little isles; sky and sea 
are vividly blue. 

I well remember that first night when I slept soimdly 
upon the cushions astern, and waking found that the 
adventure had commenced. The screws were churning 
beneath me, and glancing over the rail I saw a sea all 
sapphire running in the tiniest waves. 

Here was the ideal introduction to yachting, said I. 

And then I looked up forward and saw our Lilliputian 
liner lifting and falling; saw the bow against the sky 
and then against a wave; saw the horizon swinging 
crazily about. Then I looked back at the sea and 
realized that I had come to a life of perpetual motion. 

A great sickness stole over me and two days later I 
ate my first meal aboard, three oysters. 

To be more accurate I should say my first meal at 
sea, for I had already eaten aboard. While we were in 
Brisbane we had a special treat, mushrooms. 

"Seeing that Mrs. Gowen likes 'em, dum me if I 

26 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 27 

didn't pick *em with me own hands," said Bert, not 
without pride. 

They tasted strange, but I put it down to some secret 
of American culinary. Everybody ate, and so did L 
It was a feast. Imagine the black gloom that crept 
over me when, at 3 o*clock on a sunny afternoon tied 
up against a dock, I realized I was sea-sick. Despair 
grinned in my face and I fled below. Dark moments 
followed. 

It was a fine thing, indeed, to be a victim before we 
even started. 

Creeping shamefacedly on deck I met Bill. 

"Mrs. Gowen's very sick," he said. We discussed 
the mystery for a moment. 

* * Gee, ' ' cried Bill, of a sudden. * * Excuse me, I Ve' got 
it, too." 

He vanished. 

A. Y.'s head appeared in the companionway. 

"Jean and I are all in," he moaned. "Get a doc- 
tor!" 

By the time the doctor arrived all hands were ill 
except Bert. Then the truth came out. He had gath- 
ered his mushrooms in the park, and they were poison- 
ous toadstools. It is true he ate the lion's share him- 
self, but such are the whimsies of Fate, he felt no ill 
effects. He firmly believed the dainties were not at 
fault, and here was either a case of faith healing or 
iron digestion. 

From fifty miles out at sea we gave a concert to Jean 
ashore at a hotel. The wireless telephone receiver was 



28 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

placed before the gramophone, a record was put on, and 
the waves were received at the Pikenbah wireless sta- 
tion. They, in turn, placed their receiver against an 
ordinary telephone and the sounds travelled over 
twenty miles of land wires to Jean, standing at a 'phone 
in a corridor of the hotel. 

When we called up the place they were sure it was 
a shipwreck at least, but we reassured them by play- 
ing all the latest music. The concert was a great suc- 
cess. 

Everybody had warned us of the cyclone peril and 
had shaken their heads over us; but they were sunny, 
happy days that we spent running up the Queensland 
coast, each calmer and more wonderful than the last, 
the purple mainland to port and the endless chain of 
islands to starboard. There were smooth green isles 
like floating cucumbers, there were bare brown for- 
tresses of rock, and thickly wooded dots which some- 
how reminded you of lettuces. 

We stopped at typical northern Australian towns, 
places of great tides and high thirsts, where the local 
inhabitants flocked down the long spindly piers and 
stared at us as though a circus had come to town. At 
first this felt strange, but one soon grew as accustomed 
to it as the hardened voyagers were who had had this 
experience all around the world. 

And everybody wanted to see our liner in miniature. 
The favoured ones were permitted to do so, and one 
soon developed a line of patter. 

"And here's our little wireless set — yes, you speak 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 29 

into the receiver — probably we will give a concert to 
the wireless station — and here's the glassware, all 
stamped, you see, with the flag of the Cleveland Yacht 
Club, and Mr. Gowen's flag — Speejacks is a funny 
name, it was Mr. Gowen's nickname at college " 

And so on. 

One object of never-failing interest was the flag of the 
Adventurers' Club of New York which flew at the mast- 
head. That flag had been to the Pole, over the Andes, 
and in many other strange places, but we were carrying 
it round the world on a motor boat for the first time. 
And everybody always decided that the five jars of 
condensed water for the batteries, which were ranged 
round the smoke stack, must be our only supply of 
drinking water. 

Explanations about the tanks below were inevitable. 

Wonderful hospitality was extended to the Speejacks 
everywhere in Australia. 

Stations — or "ranches" as the Americans called 
them — were visited. Some of the party went to 
"Coochin-Coochin," the stately property of the well- 
known Bell family. The Prince of Wales spent some 
of the happiest days of his Australian tour there and 
his signature upon the walls is carefully preserved. 
Back from Gladstone, we stayed at "Fairview," a very 
typical property. The house itself with its broad, 
thatched verandas and its long chairs, the great big- 
homed cattle lowing in the log-railed yards, the spread- 
ing green countryside canopied by sparkling leaves of 
the gum-trees, the feeling of vastness and open air — ^all 



30 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

these things charmed the strangers to the land and 
pleased the Australian as a last impression. 

Here we went on a kangaroo hunt, and the two most 
expert riders of the party should have been Jean, who 
comes from Texas — ^if you are a "movie" lover you 
realize what that means — and myself. We were not. 
We filled the spectators with alternate delight and 
terror. 

"Excuse me, Mrs. Gowen," said six-feet of em- 
barrassed, bearded bushman at the end of one half- 
intended race, "but you know that those things on 
'Wave's' head are intended to steer him by?'* 

And that to a girl from Texas, in a perfect riding 
costume! 

Our aim was to photograph kangaroos and not to 
kill them. Unfortunately the animals did not realize 
this. Jay lay secreted for hours on a hot hill with 
his machine while we beat the surrounding country. 
Everybody saw kangaroos except the camera. 

They fled in every direction, looking for all the world 
like insane, athletic old gentlemen in gray pyjamas, 
but they never, by any chance, placed themselves in 
range of the camera. The outing, however, was a 
great success. Some of us, for days afterward, re- 
gretted the fact that mantelpieces are not in evidence 
on yachts. 

Back to that dear, dim house we rode as the sun died, 
and somebody suggested a swim in the lagoon. 

Down we went and pushing through the thick green 
reeds plunged into its warm waters. 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 31 

"Dad, it's quite a long time since we saw any alliga- 
tors here/' said Fra, daughter of the manager, quite 
casually as she swam with strong strokes. 

Well, after that we were scrambling up the bank for 
a safer, if more prosaic, shower bath! 

And the next day Fra, that big, healthy, sunburned 
girl, beat every one of us at tennis. I was rather glad 
we saw that girl. She was a good type. She rode, shot, 
danced, sang, swam, and played games with sure con- 
fidence and skill and she was a product of our big, wide 
bushland. 

But this is not an immigration pamphlet. It is the 
log of the Speejacks, Back to the yacht, then. 

At one of these North Queensland towns we nearly 
lost the ship. The Mayor and Council boarded her 
at the moment she touched the dock. Each was armed 
with his card. Their total weight nearly turned her 
over. It was a very solemn half hour, for every one of 
the thirty had to be introduced to the five of us, and 
they were all aldermen, although their town boasted 
less than 5,000 people. 

They were good folk, however, and as hospitable as 
any. 

You shake down amazingly quickly on a yacht. 
Already I was standing my wheel, sleeping on deck 
with the heaviness of death through rain beating in and 
magic moonshine, and happy as an inhabitant of our 
little world. 

With the compass always pointing to the prettily 
decorated "gadget" which meant North — such phrases 



32 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

as this were the torments of the Cap's life — ^we went. 
By night we stopped at a port, or better still anchored 
in the lee of a group of sleeping islands whose smooth 
shoulders stood as if they were made of velvet against 
the sky. The faint cry of birds came from them, the 
ship rode swaying gently at her anchor, and the sea 
about was mystery. 

Only once did we investigate those wonder isles. 

The boat left the ship after supper in quest of turtles 
and adventure. Through pitch-black night we went 
and landed on a rocky beach. We stayed just five 
seconds. The largest mosquitoes in all the world de- 
scended upon us in a black cloud. They would have 
carried us away bodily to their young had we dallied. 
We didn't — ^the dinghy made record time back to the 
yacht. 

"As big as birds!'' moaned Jack as he tore off his 
singlet the better to reach his tortured back. 

"Feenesh — no good!" said Louis. 

Palm Island floated down to us, then, from the hori- 
zon's rim. Somehow you always had this impression 
that the scene was coming to you rather than that you 
were going to it on this enchanted coast. Our anchor 
chain rattled down, for Palm Island is one of the last 
rallying places of the dwindling tribes of the Australian 
aborigines, and certainly the most picturesque. 

Imagine a little island twenty-five miles round set in 
summer seas. It rises in twin green hills and at their 
base, on a green flat, are the groups of huts where a 
wise Government is mustering the black fellows away 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 33 

from the destroying influences of the mainland. Even 
the inhabitants of Palm Island had heard of the Spee- 
jacks, 

"Fat feller launch he come!" they cried. 

We rowed ashore in the afternoon and found that 
they were all ready to give us welcome. Mr. R. H. 
Curry, the superintendent, was waiting on the beach 
and we walked with him in state through a cheering 
guard of honour of 600 men, women, and children who 
flung their ragged hats in the air and whooped with 
delight. 

The Australian native is of a very low type — indeed, 
a child of the stone age. His mentality is small and his 
physique is not impressive. He is happy enough with 
tobacco and his gin (wife) — and rum if he can get it, 
but he lacks ambition and intellect. A good bushman, 
that is all. The natives seemed to be well cared for 
and contented in their island home — ^but there was one 
who would not be comforted. His name was Gurra, 
and we met him on the beach soon after we landed. 
He is always there, and his wrinkled toes have worn a 
deep track in the sand where he paces up and down. 
In his eyes is the blankness of despair, in his bowed old 
frame an expression of puzzled woe, in his wrinkled face 
sad hunger. It is the wish of Gurra that he should 
return to his native place on the mainland, Cairns. 
All day he waits for the ship that will take him back 
there. But Gurra is old, and his wits are feeble. There 
is only a death in the gutter for him in Cairns. 

But he will not be convinced. 



34 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

His eyes always scan the far horizon for his ship that 
will never come. At first he thought the Speejacks was 
his salvation. He was disillusioned. 

We took his photograph, and his old eyes brightened. 

*'By and by," said he, "me go longa Cairns in the 
little black box?" 

We assured him that this was so, and for the moment 
he knew peace. 

A football match started on the big recreation ground. 
The players were bare-footed, but they kicked the ball 
with zest. Nominally the game was under Rugby 
rules, and it started well enough. Presently, however, 
additional players crept in and joined the teams until 
they were swelled to about thirty each. The umpires 
lost all control and contented themselves with pushing 
over a player whenever a chance offered, or stealing a 
kick at the ball. 

"Run — Charlie Chaplin — run!" yelled the crowd, 
and the old men laughed until it seemed their black 
old skins would crack. 

The slim young champion dashed away with the 
ball. 

"Oh, captain, get him!" cried the old men, and the 
mad rout swept round and round. 

Down came a tropical shower, encasing the game in 
a sheet of glass, but play went on. There were wild 
falls and weird contortions, determined efforts to seize 
black skin as slippery as an eeFs, much laughter, and 
when we fled the entire population had become entan- 
gled in the affair. 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 35 

The aborigines are provided with food, clothing, and 
four ounces of tobacco a week, and sometimes they are 
allowed to work on the mainland or join the pearling 
fleet. In this way some have become regular capitalists 
and have balances in the bank ranging up to £125. 

There is a little thatched gaol on the island, but more 
terrible than the mere confinement there is the fact that 
it is the abode of an evil spirit. The intending wrong- 
doer is deterred when he thinks of what it must be like 
to be locked up there with the debil-debil while happy, 
law-abiding folk are sitting in the comforting glow of a 
fire with their "Marys.'* 

Even the murderers — of whom there are several — 
are quite good citizens with that threat in their minds. 

Before we left the island Mr. Curry ordered one of 
his native police to announce that there would be a 
holiday and corroborees on the morrow. The news 
spread like wildfire and within a few moments the cheer- 
ing resounded from the four comers of the settlement. 
Even the old squat gins — six of whom often shared a 
pipe — ^shouted their approval. 

That night we flashed the clear white sword of our 
searchlight upon the beach. The shouts and cries of 
the terror-stricken people came faintly to us over the 
water. We flung the beam high into the air, and 
chased it round the horizon, and presently the cries 
turned to gratified cheers and our little entertainment 
was a great success. 

And from that island of primitive things we gave a 
wireless concert to Brisbane, the capital of the state. 



36 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

When we went ashore next morning we wondered at 
the cheering which had greeted the announcement of 
the holiday. On a normal working day all that was 
expected was some very casual labour about the settle- 
ment or in the fields. The preparations for the corro- 
boree must have been far more tr3dng. 

But these children of nature enjoyed going back to 
the primitive. They were in high spirits and all their 
war paint. 

Their bodies were painted all over with red ochre and 
pipeclay, in stripes and circles and every other pattern. 
All these signs had a significance which was a closed 
book to us. Some of the men had great raised weals 
across their chests or backs where they had been gashed 
at their initiation ceremonies, dirt being rubbed into 
the wound afterward. Stripped of their clothes their 
physique showed far better, but their legs were thin. 
The farther they came from the North the better t5rpe 
they were, and best of all were the boys from the islands 
in Torres Straits. 

There was much art in their grotesque glory — flowers 
in their hair, a clever blending of colour, and a touch of 
fancy. 

Strange figures, these children of yesterday in the 
fashions of the stone age. None stranger than the 
tribes from the Burketown and Cooktown districts 
whose faces and bodies were covered with patterns 
worked out in white tufts. These, it seemed, were 
pieces of wild cotton, but their particular attraction lay 
in the fact that they were attached to the body with 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 37 

the wearer's blood. Each man had gashed himself to 
obtain the necessary adhesive. 

They danced for us, not all together, but according 
to their tribes — solemn, monotonous dancing with but 
slight variation in step — ^to the music of drums. They 
were very earnest about it, for all the absurdity of their 
appearance, and they are just as fond of dancing as 
any debutantes in the other world. Even the children 
danced, and we heard them keeping it up far into the 
night. 

Also they threw their boomerangs, sending them 
spinning in a great circle that brings the curved sticks 
back to their feet. Then they threw spears with mar- 
vellous accuracy. Tame "bulls' eyes'' they disdained, 
and used living targets. Hurtling through the air 
would come the cruel pointed spear, and just when it 
seemed inevitable that it would pierce the body of the 
man waiting so statuesquely for it he would step aside 
and deflect the flying death with a deft touch of his 
shield which measured no more than six inches across. 

Here was a quickness of eye greater than a matador's. 

There was much jealousy between the various tribes 
in posing to be photographed, and with loud catcalls 
their rivals endeavoured to upset them in their dancing 
as the crank was turned. 

One old man, sole representative of his tribe, insisted 
upon dancing alone. Tears ran down his cheeks when 
he thought his little show was going to be overlooked. 
Eventually we turned the camera upon him and with 
much joy — 3. preposterous little figure in glory of paint 



38 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

and flower — he stepped through a solemn measure 
while his small son beat time for him with two boomer- 
angs. 

We left through that cheering lane again, loaded down 
with boomerangs and spears, and having distributed 
much largesse. Despite its orderly neatness there is an 
air of sadness hanging over Palm Island. The very 
palms seem to sigh "Farewell! Farewell!" 

"Say," was the comment of Bill, "them guys will be 
hiked off the globe pretty soon!" 

That night, inspired by example, we took a big elec- 
tric light and put it over the side. It lit up the shadowy 
waters and, presently, like moths about a lamp, big, 
shimmering fish came swimming into that magic circle. 
But though the target was there the tips of our spears 
failed to hit it. 

I don't know whether it was due to weariness result- 
ing from this tantalizing sport, but the anchor watch 
broke down. At some stage somebody called the next 
man and rolled into sleep. And the next man failed to 
roll out. We were due to sail at 6 A. m. but nobody 
awoke until 8 o'clock — ^being but land sailors, what do 
you expect? 

Through the wonder of Hinchinbrook Channel we 
sailed all next day — a lane of water hemmed in by isles 
of beauty thick with palms and tropic greenery among 
which little waterfalls gleamed like ghostly marble 
statues on the hillside. In that narrow way there was 
a slight swell, and the presence of the Lass o*Gowrie, a 
tiny coastal steamer, offered a chance to get some 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 39 

pictures of ourselves at sea. At the invitation of the 
skipper — a great, rough lump of a man wearing big gold 
earrings, who should have been a pirate — a party went 
over, and though to us who stayed on board the motion 
seemed quite normal they returned with surprising 
stories of the way we were rolling, showing a gleaming 
sheet of copper bottom at each lift of the sea. 

And yet we regarded it as a pleasant day, and the 
sea was calm. i 

"She looked as though she was rolling over," they 
said. 

I wonder what the Speejacks looked Hke in a real sea, 
and what the passengers on haughty liners thought of 
us when they swept by and saw us dancing along from 
the crest of hills of water, down into the valley, and up 
on to the heights again. This day of sailing along 
diamonded sea and purple coastline was a fitting intro- 
duction for the romance of Dunk Island. 

We anchored in six fathoms within a stone's throw of 
a curved white beach behind which rose green hills. It 
was such a place as would have been favoured by pic- 
turesque buccaneers in the stories we read when the 
world was young. It was all beauty and witchery in 
the emerald setting. 

No ordinary person could be allowed to dwell in such 
a place, but the local inhabitant who came to meet us 
was not an ordinary person — he was E. N. Banfield, 
author of "The Confessions of a Beachcomber** and 
"My Tropic Isle.** 

The first thing that struck you as he sprang nimbly 



40 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

aboard was that here was the youngest old man who 
ever foiled time — and that was before you learned that 
his years were close on seventy. Imagine a small, wiry 
chap burned nut-brown with the sun, wearing blue dun- 
garee "shorts" well above his knees, the remains of a 
shirt, and a floppy straw hat. All these things were 
picturesque enough, but what held you most was his 
kind and whimsical face, with the most shiny eyes 
peering out through his spectacles. A thatch of silver 
hair, white moustache, and a chest like a "gym*' in- 
structor — and there you have the man who was given 
three months to live when he was carried ashore to his 
island home a quarter of a century ago. 

In the interval he has not only won back health and 
happiness, but has hewn a beautiful home out of the 
heart of the wilderness in a manner which makes Robin- 
son Crusoe look like a tyro. 

This recluse had heard of the SpeejackSy also, and he 
beamed upon us, greetings and yarns pouring from him. 

We went ashore, our host pulling lustily at an oar 
in time with the measured strokes of Louis. 

With the pride of a king he welcomed us to his do- 
main. And it certainly gave cause for pride. 

On the beach was a boathouse with a large launch on 
the stocks, from there a walk of a hundred yards up an 
avenue of restless palms led to a beautiful roomy old 
house, looking out across a garden full of every hue in 
the rainbow to the island-dotted ocean. 

Here, in truth, was a place where a man might dwell 
contented all his days. The busy world was like the 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 41 

ghost of a bad dream, so far and distant was it beyond 
that dim horizon. 

Mrs. Banfield entered, the worthy mate for the dear 
old recluse. She was small and plump and motherly, a 
little deaf but, lacking all the usual signs of her affliction, 
she took a keen interest in everything, picked up smiles 
as quickly and with the same bright air as a bird does 
crumbs, and was the perfect hostess. 

They called each other "Bertha" and "Teddie'' and 
in their eyes was outspoken love lasting through the 
long years, imdisturbed, unshaken. 

They fed us upon the best milk and the best bananas 
in the world — or so it seemed after the condensed article 
and the green fruit upon which we had fared. They 
told us stories of their life, and begged us to behold the 
wonderful fertility of the soil, the kindness of Nature, 
and the vast, undeveloped territory which could be seen 
from their front veranda. 

Then the boys came ashore and there were high re- 
joicings. You should have seen the sparkle in the eyes 
of Louis when he was invited to pick as many coconuts 
as he desired. "Ah, merci!" said Louis as he fled for 
the nearest palm. 

Upon a yacht, cleanliness is a difficult art — a matter 
of a dish of water and some soap and a lot of polishing. 
In this enchanted harbour we found a bathing pool at 
the foot of a cascade where you could revel in cham- 
pagne water in a gully of brilliant foliage, swinging to 
and fro in the crystal depths on the end of a creeper 
flung like a rope above the pool. 



42 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

In the house we found all the books which you would 
wish most to read — all the books which in the busy life 
outside never get a fair hearing. There were shelves 
and shelves of them. There were also wonderful boxes 
of shells, and we saw Mr. Banfield practising a lost art 
— ^the making of pearl-shell fish hooks with a sharp stone 
and a file of coral. The results will be added to collec- 
tions in Australian museums. 

Dunk Island is a sanctuary where no man may take 
gun or trap. It is the happy home of more than beach- 
combers, for the birds of the air and the beasts of the 
field, and even the fishes of the sea, are known and loved. 
On Dunk Island the lazy-eyed cattle eat bananas from 
your hand, and when Mr. Banfield takes his morning 
swim he may play a joke upon a shark, knowing it to 
belong to a harmless variety. Even snakes — and as 
this is Eden naturally they are present — are not always 
enemies. 

We were in the heart of the rainy season, and we folk 
who complain about wet weather do not know 
what we are talking about. Last year the rainfall 
amounted to 126| inches and yet the island enjoyed 
more sun than most places. It can rain here — solid 
silver sheets, which come down steadily with the per- 
sistence of an endless curtain falling upon the stage of 
the world. Sea and sky were blotted out, and the down- 
pour hammered on the roof until talk became impossible. 
But even this rain had its advantages. You could get 
wet through four times a day and never seem to suffer 
any harm, though it made our cinematographer and 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 43 

photographer weep bitter tears. Bananas and milk 
and the stories of the old beachcomber made the time 
pass all too quickly. 

"Four years ago now since the cyclone struck us/* 
said our host. "That was a terrible time. Not a leaf 
was left on any island in the group, and great trees were 
blown away like matches. At the aboriginal station on 
the mainland four people were killed, and my motor 
laimch was swept out to sea and driven half a mile in- 
land, where it was left high and dry. The roof went 
off the house, and we crouched in the darkness, listening 
to the insane wind howling and the incessant rain, and 
wondered what would happen next. All about us we 
could hear the trees and palms splintering, and the iron 
from the roof was hurled about like paper. It was a 
night of demons. And then, suddenly, it passed, and 
only the sodden, ceaseless rain broke the hush of the 
night.'' 

His bright eyes sparkled as he told the story, and 
there was a tone in his voice which carried conviction 
when he declared that the experience was too great to 
miss. 

"The next mail steamer brought us a wire from a 
friend,'* he continued. "The message simply read 
'Congratulations,' and although it seems strange at 
first glance, when you come to think of it it was quite 
justified since our only loss was a monetary one." 

He told us many other good stories, but none better 
than the tale of the simple courage of a settler on an- 
other island. Walking down to his launch one night 



44 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

this man stood upon a snake and was bitten. He did 
not spring five feet into the air as you and I should have, 
but kept his feet on the reptile until he struck a match 
and had the satisfaction of discovering that it was of 
a non-venomous variety. 

You would be surprised at the size of the mail to 
Dunk Island. Every steamer brings letters asking for 
advice upon becoming a beachcomber, and begging to 
be allowed to settle on the Isle. Many are from girls 
who are sure they could live forever and ever upon 
coconuts. It seems that the busy world is full of 
people who still cherish their dreams. 

We entertained Mr. Banfield at dinner on board, and 
he vowed that it was like stepping back into the world 
he had foresworn. 

"Do you know,'* he said, "I have only been to two 
picture shows in my life, and have never seen an aero- 
plane!" 

Before we sailed A. Y. was made a member of the 
Honourable Brotherhood of Beachcombers. This se- 
cret order is pledged to love the sun, the sand, and the 
surf, and its badge is a beautiful little shell. Lord 
Forster, Governor General of Australia, is a member of 
the select coterie, having been formally installed during 
a visit to the island. 

No one can deny that it is an organization meriting 
all support. The sun, the sand, and the surf — where 
is the man who would not be a member? 

The saddest feature of our trip was the constant 
necessity for parting. The anchor was firm at some 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 45 

place of fascination, you met charming and hospitable 
people who wanted you to stay, there was every tempta- 
tion to become a lotus eater, "weary seemed the sea, 
weary the oar,'' but always strange horizons beckoned 
you on, always there was that much-amended schedule 
sitting upon your shoulder like an old man of the sea. 

But, if you are ever going to get round the world, you 
must pay some attention to Old Man Schedule. It 
must be, "Good-bye — and may we meet sometime!*' 
the dinghy on the davits again, the anchor up all drip- 
ping and slimy, the tinkle of the engine-room telegraph 
and another place left behind, the bow pointed out for 
the next port, and the last halt drowning in the sea 
astern. 

So was it on all the trip — so was it at Dunk Island. 
But the memory of Bertha and Teddie lingers like some 
sweet old story heard in childhood, a refreshing breath 
of real things, a picture of love and nature conquering 
Time. 

On March 12th it was the continent of Australia 
which the sea swallowed. We turned our bow east after 
a run of 1,063 miles up the coast and made for one of 
the gateways in that tremendous coral barrier. It was 
named Cook Passage after that great navigator whose 
discoveries are commemorated and recalled by a thou- 
sand things along this continent. Picture for yourself 
a line of leaping white foam stretching from horizon to 
horizon, with here and there low hummocks of rock 
like whales, and in this long sea fence make a clear gate 
no more than two miles wide and looking to be about 



46 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

a hundred yards. Such was Cook Passage through 
which we passed in the late afternoon, and came to 
the easy, deep, blue Pacific rollers. 

It seemed very quiet and still to one unaccustomed 
to the ocean in such a small craft. 

Later a sea bird, calling harshly, circled around us, 
a black shadow against the moon, and landed on the 
mast. 

Louis, chuckling, set out to climb up that stubby 
structure which seemed amazingly high in silhouette 
against the bright sky. We saw him right on the top 
for a moment, he leaned out to the wireless aerial, hold- 
ing on with his heels, there was a faint squawk and a 
shout of triumph, and down he came with that strug- 
gling sea ghost in his arms. 

Being a Frenchman he naturally brought it back as 
a gift for Jean, and, locking one wing over the other, 
laid it down at her feet. 

The bird, being neither a good sailor nor polite, was 
at once very sea-sick, and lay there with its great wings 
spread out like imploring arms, and its sharp bill snap- 
ping to right and left. It looked very pitiful and un- 
gainly, so Louis picked it up, and looking into its eyes, 
said: "Good-night to you!" He flung it far back into 
its own sky and it fell for a breath, spread its wings 
and swept away into the void, the most surprised bird 
in the world. 

The next day was fine,' and with the night came a 
great round moon, silvering all the sea and throwing 
brilliant white and inky pools of shadow upon the decks. 



GARLANDED ISLANDS 47 

From the engine-room hatch came the sounds of the 
boys quietly singing songs about girls, singing them in 
a way that told clearly that each and every one of them 
had a particular girl in mind. The moon rode high and 
the tops of the smooth rollers touched by its magic 
gleamed like things alive. The yacht slipped on as 
does a ship of dreams. 

That night we sat late on the cushions talking a little, 
but the long, calm silences were more eloquent. 

The bell chimed silvery, the wake was a silver snake, 
and sea and sky were shot with a thousand shades of 
gray and silver. 

We dreamed along. 



CHAPTER IV 

Papua's Ports and People 

"New Guinea," said we, "marks the beginning of 
the very heart of our trip/' 

Fittingly enough we saw the mystery island first on 
a morning such as, in moments of despondency, you 
might have imagined to belong only to the world of the 
imagination of a novelist. 

Dawn came all heliotrope and pink, flooding a cloud- 
less sky; the Pacific was as fancy paints it, oily and 
smooth, a sheet of sleeping sea, and there was even the 
essential shark's fin slicing its surface; away ahead the 
mountains of New Guinea rose purple and clear-cut 
against the flushing sky, steep and sheer as the hills of 
the stage, and seeming to be a wall built to the clouds 
that this least known island of the globe might guard 
its secrets better. 

Behind those purple battlements lay 300,000. square 
miles of wilderness. 

If you came to New Guinea in a crowded passenger 
boat you might not taste the thrill of it quite as deeply 
as we did in our tiny craft. Our senses were so sharp- 
ened that we were like explorers coming to a new land. 

In more senses than one, be it said. 

Currents had their way with us as they do not with 
the stately ships. We were as a match in their power. 

48 




a 






bjO 



.a 

173 



^ 



I 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 49 

In addition our charts were vague, and so it chanced 
that we came to a beautiful harbour which should have 
been Port Moresby. A little jetty thrust itself out into 
the sea and half-a-dozen iron-roofed houses stood on 
a bare hillside. 

Not much of a place, we agreed! 

Then we began to have doubts and fumbled our way 
along carefully. There crept toward us a schooner with 
old brown sails and a rakish green hull. She was per- 
fectly in the picture. Her crew were all Papuans, naked 
save for a loin cloth, statues modelled in bronze with 
great mops of hair and tattooed faces. They were 
splendid figures in the morning sun. Appropriate to 
our feelings the craft was named Wanderer. 

"Say! Is this Port Moresby?" we yelled. 

"No!" floated back the shout. "Bootlace!" 

At first we thought the reply was in the nature of a 
joke, but when the Wanderer came nearer, the brown 
captain offered to pilot us in to Moresby, which was 
some miles down the coast. He joined us by the simple 
expedient of diving into the water from his ship and 
swimming to ours with the tow rope. With the 
Wanderer dragging astern and her naked crew staring 
at us in wide-eyed wonder we went on our way. It 
seemed that we had blundered into a small mining 
town, and we learned later that we were fortunate to 
have escaped the reefs which abound in the harbour. 

Out of sight of quarantine officials, we dropped our 
unofficial pilot, but, although he had only a few miles 
to go, he did not make port until the next day. His 



50 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

troubles were gone, however, when we had given him 
much trade tobacco and some cheap cigars! 

If you wish to please a resident of Moresby you must 
tell him that you think it is the last place in the world. 

If you want him to be your friend forever make some 
comparison between his home town and hell. 

This is strange, for although it is far from being a 
metropolis it is not unattractive to the visitor. There 
may be, there doubtless are, more exciting places to live. 
But Moresby, standing on its bare promontory, has its 
fascination. It is a harbour of strange ships. Here 
come the schooners, dirty yet fascinating rascals of the 
seas, canoes with huge triangular sails flit in — ^great 
sailing rafts carrying small huts and the strangest mass 
of men and women, babies, pigs, pottery, and much 
besides. Dug-outs cut from logs dart hither and 
thither. All about is the sleepy sea dotted with palm- 
clad isles. 

A strange town, too, this capital of the Unknown. 

Every street is full of bronze statues, for the Papuans 
go about in their native dress, which, though scanty, 
becomes them far better than the scarecrow clothes 
which might have been forced upon them. A strip of 
cloth for the men, a grass petticoat for the women, that 
is what the natives wear in Papua's capital. 

Out here in the world's backyard strange things 
happen and you meet people whose everyday life is one 
long adventure story, though they would be the first 
to laugh such a statement to scorn. 

On the day we arrived a black pearl valued at £1,000 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 51 

had been stolen. Everybody knew who had stolen it 
but nothing could be proved. The town was mildly 
interested. 

"It will'go south quietly on one of the steamers/' 
they said in the Papua Club. 

The club is the one place in town which is not loathed 
by the inhabitants. A good corner this, where you get 
iced beer brought to you by a boy with his hair frizzed 
out a foot about his head, and where you hear stories of 
strange adventures told most casually. Nice respect- 
able people will tell you that these are dreadful folk, 
that some of them drink and use bad language and have 
been known to strikeliatives, but these sim-tanned 
Englishmen, Australians, and Americans, tall and lean 
most of them, are men doing men's jobs and fighting 
for a foothold against the wilderness. 

Scraps of those yarns linger. 

** It is very weird down in the Delta Country. Miles 
and miles of mangrove swamps, don't you know. 
Creepy! Half gloom and swirling water and strange 
crabs and things! Well, when the wife and I were pass- 
ing through last on the way to the plantation she in- 
sisted on getting out of the canoe to inspect a long house, 
a kind of a club affair. She went up the ladder first 
and walked straight into a human skeleton dangling 
just inside the doorway. Upset? Rather — but you 
can't ever tell a wife anything. . . ." 

"They murdered one of my boys and I think they'd 
have got me, too, if they dared. But decent fellows 
at heart — quite decent. . . ." 



52 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

" I can tell you five days at sea in an open canoe, with 
only natives with you and a fever temperature well 
above the century, is not the best thing in the world for 
the constitution. . . ." 

So they talked, these lantern-jawed men. 

Papua along with all the rest of the East was ex- 
periencing the effects of the slump. Rubber and copra 
costing more to produce than they brought, the pearl 
industry far from thriving — ^here was a state of affairs 
which sent the little gnome of Gloom to dwell in many 
of those homes among the brown men. Well for the 
older places, the rich lands of the East, to grumble and 
fret, but what of this little band of pioneers, who had 
gained a tiny foothold on the fringe of the dark island, 
and who were in imminent peril of having to stand by 
and see the handkerchief clearings wrested from the jun- 
gle swallowed up by that devouring green beast again? 

It is typical of New Guinea that you can see a native 
village in its primitive state within fifteen minutes* 
journey of the capital. Afterward we cruised right 
round the island but we saw nothing more native than 
Hanuabada, that strange marine village from which 
Moresby is in sight. This village has seven hundred 
inhabitants, all dwelling in reed and grass houses built 
out over the water on thin poles. Canoes pass con- 
tinually, brown water babies frisk beneath every house, 
strange purple dogs in the last stages of mange abound, 
and women strut with the swish of their ramis — or grass 
petticoats — which are considered the height of fashion 
in Hanuabada. 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 53 

The life of the village goes on much as it did in the 
beginning. 

The people are essentially traders. They make 
wonderful pottery, the women working with their bare 
hands and not using a wheel. When a consignment is 
ready the lakatois, the huge sailing canoes, are laden 
and set sail. More crazy, impossible craft never in- 
sulted the ocean, but they seldom come to grief. Two 
hundred miles down the coast they may go to the vil- 
lages which grow sago, the staple food. Here the pots 
are traded for sago and ramis, and, after an absence 
which may be more than three months, back beats the 
fleet again, and there is rejoicing then in Hanuabada, 
Tanobada, and Elovalo; great feasting and new ramis 
for all the girls. 

Being traders, there are also gamblers here, and very 
keen gamblers, indeed. Witness the case of the man 
who in a game of cards lost first his money, then his 
house, then his few clothes and adornments, and who, 
ultimately, in one final effort to retrieve his fortune, 
staked his wife. 

While his action was sporting it was hardly the play 
of a loyal husband. Fate frowned on him. He lost. 

All would have gone well had it not been that the 
winner — Shaving seen the lady — declined to take deliv- 
ery of her. Then the disloyal husband swung round, 
feeling that even if a gentleman wagered his wife he 
could not stand by and hear her insulted. A fight en- 
sued with bloodshed, and that was how the story came 
out before the magistrate next morning. 



54 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A strange land! 

And here, too, I saw a fully qualified compositor from 
the Government printing office lashing up with fibre 
the bamboo ladder leading to his house, and wearing a 
costume of a piece of string. In the hut itself his tat- 
tooed wife made clay pots. 

Most of the villagers' teeth and lips were stained 
black and red from chewing betel nut and lime, and even 
here trade tobacco was more popular than money. We 
watched an old man smoking this noisome stuff. First 
he rolled a fragment in a piece of green leaf which he 
inserted in a hole in a piece of bamboo two inches in 
diameter and eighteen inches long. He puffed at the 
end hard but no smoke came. Then he removed the 
leaf and applied his lips to the upper hole. His face 
beaming with satisfaction, he turned himself into a pair 
of bellows, inhaling deeply. Setting the pipe aside he 
sat calmly under his palm tree with smoke pouring from 
him as though he were a factory chimney! 

The little naked youngsters were fascinating. They 
had many games. A dozen dusky Cupids stood in a 
circle about a small stick buried in the garden. They 
fired their arrows at the same moment and there was 
pride on the face of the marksman upon the tip of whose 
arrow the target was found. While two small boys 
played a game resembling pitch and toss with flat 
marked stones, for wagers of handfuls of straw, one 
foot of black baby stood by entranced with a large 
red crab towing behind her on a fibre cord. Her sister 
watched beside her, very proud of her earrings, one of 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 55 

which was of carved mother-of-pearl shell, the other a 
large and rusty safety pin. 

In the beautiful station of the London Missionary 
Society, set on the hills above, school is held three days 
a week. 

Most of the classes take place in ideal surroundings 
in the open air beneath the palms, amid the brilliance 
of hibiscus and Bougainvillea blossoms, and looking 
out across the vivid blue of the sea. 

It was quaint to see the small brown fingers writing 
CAT on the ground before them with pebbles, and hear 
the small ones singing an action song which went: 

"Here's a ball for baby 
Big and soft and round.** 

Or joining in a hymn and the National Anthem. 

"Have we all washed — show hands?" chanted the 
pretty young girl who had just come from Australia to 
give her life to this work. 

The little black hands went up, and I doubt that as 
many white hands belonging to owners of the same age 
would have looked as clean. 

Papua, though you might not expect it, is a much 
governed country — ^much misgoverned, all the local 
people will tell you, with the exception of officials them- 
selves and the missionaries. 

There are many people with the easy tasks which 
make for undue attention to trifles. Over in Queens- 
land three months before there had been a plague out- 
break. People had forgotten about it in Australia 



56 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

when I left. But Papua hadn't, and so, although we 
had been allowed to land at Moresby and go through 
the native village, and although we were prepared to 
demonstrate that there was not a rat on board, we were 
put under quarantine for our run down the southeast 
coast of Papua, and told that we were not to land until 
we arrived at the only other township, Samarai, 300 
miles to the east. 

All protests and appeals proved useless, but maybe 
Papua Club gossip had the position summed up cor- 
rectly when the decision was given that it was not the 
plague so much as somebody's dignity offended which 
caused the trouble. 

And so we left Moresby feeling ill-content. 

When we got away, however, running down that 
wonderful palm-dotted coastline, inside the shelter of a 
coral reef, our spirits picked up a little. We could not 
sail at night owing to the dangerous waters, and so at 
sun-down we pulled into Hood Inlet, a haven of rare 
beauty, sheltered by a great golden spear of sand on 
which the surf beat, rising in a glistening cloud. Inside 
all was calm and peace and among the ever-fascinating 
glory of the palms a big village nestled, brown amid the 
vivid green. 

Faithfully we adhered to our promise not to land, 
but we could not prevent the fleet of outrigger canoes 
flocking out and surrounding us on all sides. 

Most of the men were without clothes of any kind, 
and a wild crew they were with great glowing flowers 
and paradise bird plumes thrust in their hair, their 




Ratu (chief) Epeli of Fiji receives guests from the Speejacks. 
Epeli (squatting) was educated at Oxford. 



Ratu 




The fire-walkers of Fiji prepare the scene of their magic. 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 57 

faces and bodies tattooed in a thousand patterns and 
gleaming with coconut oil, beads and shark and dog 
tooth necklaces and woven arm bands completing their 
picturesque appearance. 

Their canoes were laden down with coconuts, fish, 
crabs, birds of paradise, tropical fruit and curios, and 
these they wished to trade for tobacco. 

Money was waved away haughtily, and, in fact, one 
old man clung to the side of the ship for an hour holding 
four £1 notes and begging us to sell him tobacco. 

As we walked the deck smoking, brown claws were 
stretched up to us from every side and the smallest 
butt of a cigarette was accepted and puffed at with 
zest, often passing to a dozen hands until you wondered 
if its life was not being prolonged by magic. 

Some well-meaning, but misinformed, gentleman had 
told the boys at an early stage of the trip that they 
would be able to trade empty cigarette and tobacco tins 
for wonderful things in New Guinea. Up forward, 
along the bunks, rows of these tins had been accumu- 
lating now for many moons. They were produced, but 
the effect was not as it should have been. The wild 
business-men seemed to have a very keen appreciation of 
their real value. 

It was a strange scene, this: the modem yacht in 
that quiet lagoon, a complete home in the wilderness, 
hemmed in by the primitive fleet of the men of the stone 
age, and with great cloud-pearled purple mountains for 
background. 

Before we sailed on the following morning we scat- 



58 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

tered some sticks of tobacco among the crowd, and 
there was a rare old scramble of gleaming golden bodies 
in that golden water for the precious weed. 

Billirapa, which we reached on the following after- 
noon, will always linger in the memory as one of the 
greenest places it is possible to imagine. Its high cliffs 
were festooned, hidden, buried beneath the densest 
growth of tropical verdure. So vivid was the colouring 
that it hurt the eyes to look upon it. 

And on the following day we paused at a big planta- 
tion where the son of an English noble family came out 
to greet us in an outrigger canoe. 

The Honourable Howard was a tall man in khaki 
shorts, a khaki shirt, and a great rent straw hat. He 
was brown as a berry, and though we could not allow 
him to come aboard on accoimt of the quarantine he 
yarned to us for quite a while from his flimsy canoe. 
He looked a most desperate character, and it was a 
queer thing to hear his polished accent, as, out there in 
the wilderness, he sighed for lights of London town. 

Many men such as he we met in the Pacific — ^men 
who had tasted life at its best in the Empire's heart, 
and who, among the black men, seemed in strange con- 
trast. And some of them were sad men, and some 
were broken men, and all were homesick men. There 
were some lonely exiles in the Solomons and such out- 
of-the-way places, who vowed they were on the verge of 
suicide when our little slice of civilization arrived like 
an unexpected angel of the sea and saved them from 
themselves and the dreadful torments of loneliness. 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 59 

The mockery was the beauty of their surroundings. 
I have seen men, big men, with tears in their eyes, 
cursing as they looked out across a sea of azure, seen 
like a dream of wonder through palms and scarlet blos- 
soms; cursing the hateful beauty and crying for the 
lights, and the sound of feet on the pavements, and the 
bleat of a taxi's horn, and — all those things! 

Think of this, good brothers, when the city irks, 
when your squirrel's wheel is a torment. Think of the 
men who curse in the very places where your dreams 
would take you. 

Here was an end to our run in sheltered seas, and out 
through another coral gate we went to the open ocean. 
Big waves waited for us out there, and charged down 
through the quick dusk in their massed battalions. A 
local trader who had cruised with us some of the way 
and whom we met again in Samarai told us that he had 
been looking for us along the reefs. He never thought 
we would find our way through. 

I had the eight to ten watch that night, and a time 
of black misery it was. 

The ship rode up to the top of the black waves, paused 
for a second on the crest, and crashed down into the 
trough, as though a huge hand had been placed suddenly 
upon it. Out on either side of the deckhouse splayed 
a great gleaming white fan of phosphorescent spray, 
shimmering sparkles of which blew into the wheelhouse. 
The wheel ki-oked, and there was no end to the ever- 
charging legions of the sea. 

"Jean, take the wheel a moment, will you?" 



60 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Some bitter moments at the rail — and then back to 
see the rest of the two hours out. Time went by Hke 
a fly walking on treacle. Here was one of the inter- 
ludes when you wondered about yachting and the 
charms of the little white bird. But, eventually, the 
blessed benediction of the bell bidding you be at peace, 
and so to the locker astern. Thereafter complete for- 
getfulness. 

So to Samarai, Papua's only other town, a witch of a 
place which laid warm fingers on the heart. 

Samarai's area is just fifty acres, but it is fifty acres 
of loveliness set among little sleepy islands which dream 
the days away with their heads in the clouds and their 
toes in the blue waves. 

The town straggles along one little street facing the 
sea, a street made into a tunnel of greenery by the over- 
arching trees, and brightened by the thousand autumnal 
tints of the croton bushes. Samarai is very clean, for 
there are many native prisoners here who sweep and 
trim and polish its walks all day. 

A very peculiar little town. 

When A. Y. wanted to get his hair cut he found that 
the only barber in the place was the native prison 
warder, and he had to go to gaol for the tonsorial opera- 
tion. There was a prisoner there who went mad at 
each full of the moon, and who, upon the last occasion, 
had held up the entire establishment with a knife and a 
hatchet. 

Life in Samarai, apart from this gentleman, seemed 
to run smoothly enough. There were no telephones 



PAPUANS PORTS AND PEOPLE 61 

to disturb the peace and if you wanted to send a mes- 
sage you had a boy employed to do nothing else save 
run with chits. " Boys " cost only ten shillings a month 
and they seem to work well if properly supervised. We 
were entertained at a wonderful dinner in a cool house 
on the hillside, a place of broad verandas and shaded 
lights — and all the work of preparation had been done 
by natives who still wore only a loin cloth and who, 
but a few months before, had been savages. 

Every little white girl and boy has a real live golliwog 
to play with in Samarai, and the golliwog also looks 
after them for every moment of the day. More at- 
tentive than civilized nursemaids were these savages 
with their pierced ears and noses, their wrinkled faces, 
and their appearance of being the perfect cannibal, 
and a strange contrast they were as they fussed over 
their tiny charges whose skin showed so white against 
theirs. 

Lying at the tiny jetty it seemed that Samarai's har- 
bour was made of glass rather than water. You looked 
down into the still depths and saw the flocks of butterfly- 
vying fish darting everywhere, big chaps and little ones, 
deformed and graceful, miracles of colour and absurdity. 

All day, and half the night, patient copper statues 
with many-pronged spears poised on the jetty and took 
shots at those darting squadrons. They seldom made 
a catch, but for our edification they speared gray, 
squabby octopi and fat sea snakes which became like 
pieces of damp string as soon as they touched the dry 
land. 



62 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

And when Jack, doing some work to the mast, 
touched a "live*' electric wire and fell into the sea, how 
those fishermen laughed at his record-breaking speed 
as he floundered out of the fish-haunted, suggestive 
depths! 

: Very beautiful was that harbour in the still night, 
when the riding lights of a hundred quaint craft flung 
spears of gold into the water, and the high-pitched 
quavering note of a native singing floated across the 
peace. 

They have no ice in Samarai, in ordinary times, but 
when the steamer from Australia comes there is a few 
days* supply to spare. Then the rowdy gramophone 
shouts loud and long in Samarai's wooden hotel, and 
there is much clinking of glasses and telling of yams. 

For myself I liked the story of the planter making 
holiday in Sydney. He was — strange to say — ^in a 
bar on the evening of a race meeting and a foolish young 
man in a state of noisy exuberance threw a glass at the 
wall and shattered it. The trader remonstrated. 

"Damme, man," said the youth, "d'you know who 
lam? Tm of ." 

And he named one of Australia's best landed families 
and their big property. 

The planter looked at him coolly for a moment, and 
then, lifting a huge bowl of goldfish from the bar, crashed 
it down at his feet. 

"Damme, man," quoth he, "do you know who I am? 
I'm of New Guinea!" 

They told better yams than that, too, while the 



PAPUA'S PORTS AND PEOPLE 63 

gramophone bayed to the big-eyed stars, but they may 
not be set down here. 

Unlike their brothers at Moresby the citizens of 
Samarai Uke you to praise their town. They claim 
that it is generally known as "the pearl of the Pacific.'* 
It may be, though that title has a familiar ring. There 
are so many of these pearls. 

But not one word against Samarai. Samarai is a 
fragrant memory, like the perfume favoured by a love 
of yesterday. 



CHAPTER V 

Mad Drums of the Dark Island 

Do YOU know those strange, uncanny hills which 
sometimes form the setting for a dream? 

There is that about the coastline of northeast Papua 
which inevitably suggests them. For days we cruised 
along it, and I could never escape from the feeling that 
the bold land to port was stolen from a nightmare. 
Fold upon fold of razor-backed mountains ran abruptly 
down to the water's edge; every cleft had a thin thread 
of silver and the slopes seemed to be covered in a carpet 
of green moss. As a matter of fact, those threads were 
really rushing cataracts and the moss was really high 
bushes and trees— the illusion was due to the gods, 
who, when they flung up these battlements, were in the 
mood to build upon a gigantic scale. 

Fold upon fold, fold upon fold, reaching from the 
fleecy clouds to the water. And even the ocean was a 
thing of a dream — ^purple, not blue; so vivid a purple 
that when you dipped your hand into it you half ex- 
pected it to come out stained. A purple sea, those 
vivid green walls, and a sky of clearness that hurt; 
surely a dream territory if ever there was one. 

And everywhere the flying fish went splashing away 
from our bows, leaving a sparkling trail on the face of 
the waters. 

64 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 65 

Fittingly enough — everything is part of the picture 
in New Guinea — our pilot through these strange waters 
was the half-caste son of an English earl who had only 
been prevented from inheriting the title by a special Act. 

The purple waters were very deep. "No bottom/* 
said the charts to within a few yards of the shore, and 
when the nights came we had difficulty in finding an- 
chorage. Within fifty yards of the shore it was often 
necessary to use fifteen fathoms of cable. 

Sunny days, these. Astern trailed the long trawling 
line, and many a fine fish we caught on it — great gleam- 
ing beauties five feet long; kingfish and bonito in the 
main. The line was looped to the stanchion by a piece 
of thread so that when a fish leaped for that tempting 
piece of cloth and took the great hook the thread 
snapped. It was an eternal source of wonder to me 
that no sooner was there a bite than there came a rush 
of hurrying feet from all over the ship. 

Louis would run with a boat hook; Bill, whose line 
it was, would haul in like fury; and the great, shining 
monster would be lifted aboard, struggling and fighting. 
We might not catch a fish for a week, but as soon as 
that thread snapped watchful eyes would see it. Once, 
however, the fish proved too strong for us. There was 
the warning yell of "Fish-o!" but before anybody could 
reach it the line snapped off clean at the stanchion, and 
some goliath of the sea swam away, doubtless sadly 
hindered by that trailing fifty yards of cord. 

And talking of fish: In one of the quiet nooks along 
this coast we came upon a small pearling lugger which 



66 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

was prospecting for new trochus shell and beche-de-mer 
grounds. Sitting there on his tiny craft, while his na- 
tive crew played the faint and plaintive reeds which 
are their only wind instruments, the blond young 
Australian giant who owned the craft told us many 
things of his strange life. 

Diving is a perilous trade. In Thursday Island Hos- 
pital was a boy whose head had been in a shark's mouth. 
In some manner he had escaped, but around his neck he 
carried, like a necklet, a row of deep scars where the 
teeth sank in. The average native diver does not fear 
sharks as much as he does the great codfish which lie 
on the bottom with their mouths open and wait for 
fish to swim into them. They weigh up to five 
hundredweight and are the menace of the pearl beds. 
Then there are the giant rays weighing as much as two 
tons, with great, fiat, evil bodies fourteen feet across. 

"The real trouble with diving is the effects of im- 
mersion at great depths without any protection,'* 
said the casual young giant. "Bad luck, I lost two of 
my best boys that way. The anchor fouled in fourteen 
fathoms, and one of the boys went down and cleared it. 
When he came up I gave him a nice new rami and some 
trade tobacco. Another boy scoffed at his feat, which 
I knew was a remarkable one, and offered to do the same 
thing if I would bet him a rami and tobacco also. He 
did so, but he was no use ever after, and died three 
months later, while the first boy also had to be paid off, 
as he suffered from bleeding from the nose and ears as 
a result of the great pressure." 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 67 

We went fishing for trepang, or beche-de-mer, in the 
lugger's dinghy. The catching of these slugs of the sea 
is a ghastly business. They are afterward smoked and 
sent to China, where they are regarded as a great deli- 
cacy. 

The water was crystal clear and down on the glisten- 
ing coral sand could be seen coloured smudges. The 
native boy dived overboard wearing a pair of goggles 
which enabled him to see below the surface. Down and 
down he went, plainly seen in those cool depths, a big 
black frog. Then he came to the top again, and flung 
into the boat his gruesome haul, nightmare things, the 
very embodiment of noisome sin. They were squabby, 
some a foot in length, and coloured in sickly greens and 
yellows and stripes and spots. Soft, flabby slime which 
lay in the bottom of the boat exuding more slime, so 
that you dared not look upon them. 

If I am ever invited to eat beche-de-mer there will be 
murder done. 

"Not pretty, but profitable,'* said the man who 
caught slimy things. He touched them with his bare 
toes almost lovingly. 

The things squirmed and writhed. Ugh! 

At many out-of-the-way places we called on that 
strange coast. I remember one cove we came to in 
the dusk to see a young white girl with her baby in her 
arms standing on the beach. She was a poor little 
thing — young, little more than a flapper — and there 
she was marooned in a house floored, roofed, and made 
altogether from split bamboo. 



68 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

It was three months since they had seen anybody, 
and it was nine months since she had spoken to a white 
girl. The last she had seen was when she went right 
down to Samarai in an open whale boat to have her 
baby, and then, with the youngster in the crook of her 
arm, hurried back all too soon because funds were 
short. 

Her husband was a weary young man who saw, with 
black despair, the bottom fall out of the copra market 
just as his palms came into bearing. 

"You must excuse me," she said, "if I seem quiet. 
I think Vm in for a bout of fever." 

She was a very tragic little girl with her clubbed hair 
and her baby face and her shattered illusions regarding 
tropic seas and skies. A very tragic little girl — and 
so we took her aboard and petted her, and she smoked 
a cigarette, and we made much of her while she sat be- 
neath the electric light and the gramophone played her 
dance music and the steward brought a cocktail, and all 
the time her eyes were round as a child's at her first 
pantomime. 

"It wasn't fever at all that made me headachy when 
I met you," she confided to Jean. "The fact is I was 
so excited that I thought I should die or get hysterics." 

I think we left her happier; that poor little city girl, 
who looked so frail for her dual task of mother and 
pioneer. 

There were bright tears in her eyes blending with a 
new sparkle when she went back in a canoe to her house 
amid those palms which she had thought would sing to 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 69 

her, and which, instead, whispered mockeries over her 
Httle cropped head. 

We paused at many mission stations. Boianai was 
a good example. It stood upon a rich and gentle rise 
in the midst of upheaved volcanic mountains and the 
natives appeared to be happy and contented. There 
was a queer little church here, built of matting. Inside 
it was cool and quiet, and the floor was made of smooth 
volcanic pebbles glistening like black marble. The 
missionary lived in a big and gracious house, from the 
wide veranda of which he looked out over his carpenter- 
ing shop to the blue Pacific. A peaceful though lonely 
life was his, and he was much loved by his people. It 
seemed a trifle hard to us that when he had just built 
up his station and made it comfortable he should have 
been ordered to go farther north into the wilderness. 

I suppose it is impossible to realize the missionary 
outlook unless you have the missionary spirit. It 
seemed so strange to us, the good but narrow men la- 
bouring on the fringe of a continent, and teaching their 
stolid parishioners to sing hymns. A very futile, hope- 
less task it seemed, and beyond the fact that those in 
the mission stations were more cheeky, it was hard to 
see any difference between them and their uncivilized 
and untouched brethren. 

John Jeremiah, Ananias Hippolytus, and sundry 
other fuzzy-haired young men came out to look over 
the yacht at this station. How they "Oo-o-d!'' and 
whistled and clicked their tongues over the electric 
light, the fans, and the telephones! 



70, SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

At Mukawa we found a trading fleet of canoes which 
had just put in to buy bananas. The crews were all 
dressed in their richest finery and made a brave picture, 
with their hair built up straight in front and faced with 
dog's teeth or white shells. Strips of the skin of the 
cus-cus — a small marsupial — ^flowed from their armlets, 
and at the back they wore their hair in ringlets kept in 
place by applications of honey. 

At intervals they drew away and sat down on the 
beach to study themselves in small mirrors which they 
carried in their armlets. 

Visitors and locals showed much deference to Agara, 
the bad man of the district. He was a wrinkled old 
rogue with a face like parchment. His decorations — 
one could not call them clothes — were of great richness 
and he had many wives. 

Once Agara had been a village constable, but he was 
dismissed on the grounds that he was a blackmailer and 
told the truth only by accident. On these, and similar, 
qualities he has since made a prosperous living. 

Vivid for its picture of primitive conditions is the 
memory of our surprise visit to Boga Boga, some miles 
up the coast. We walked some miles through tropical 
jungle to reach it, and in the wilderness came suddenly 
upon the concrete-covered grave of a trader whom the 
fever took twenty years before, and who slept with 
the palms weeping above him. 

It is a strange thing that though a Papuan will stare 
at you when you walk past him in Port Moresby, only 
the village constable paid any attention to us in Boga 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 71 

Boga, where you could count on the fingers of one hand 
the white visitors in a year. It gave you a strange feel- 
ing of being bodiless, invisible, and it was almost a 
relief when a great, lean hog came up and grunted at 
you inquiringly, or a skeleton dog ran snapping at 
your heels. 

The village life went on undisturbed. 

A man with a rough stone adze was chipping patiently 
away at a big log, the heart of which he would even- 
tually hew out, transforming it into a canoe; a party 
worked on the construction of a hut, knitting the green 
palm fronds neatly together; small boys gathered with 
interest about an old hag who was making sago rissoles 
which she coated with chipped coconut; and the village 
belle, all glimmering with oil, was sitting frizzing her 
hair with a great comb. 

She, naturally enough, was conscious of our presence, 
but the others seemed quite unaware of it. They were 
polite, however, when we spoke to them, and when the 
constable explained that we wished for some coconuts 
half a dozen lads were ready to walk nimbly up those 
perpendicular trunks to bring them for us. 
, It was a happy enough scene, and though at first 
glance the natives appeared dirty and their huts were 
classed as hovels, it was in reality not one whit worse 
than many of the slums of our civilization, and the 
villagers were certainly better off than our people of the 
gutter. 

We had been prepared for the beauty of Tufi, or Cape 
Nelson. But not sufficiently prepared. The wonder 



72 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

of this strange harbour took our breath away, as the 
yacht came nosing in following the drunken beacons. 
We found here a Norwegian fiord on a grand scale which 
had strayed to the tropics and clad itself in the marvel 
of the foliage and colour of the seas of the sun. The 
great cliffs rose steep and high on either side, and it 
seemed that the very weight of their coat of greenery 
must pull them down. 

We fumbled about that sleeping place of wonder, 
seeking an anchorage with our lead line. There was 
none, so ultimately, though we feared shallows, we 
pulled into the tiny dock built right against the base of 
the cliff. And beneath us, even there, was ten fathoms 
of water. 

The resident magistrate, McDonald by name, came 
to greet us. He was a grim Australian Scot, but it was 
hard to realize that this quiet man ruled a kingdom with 
a coastline of 250 miles and a population of 35,000 
natives and 20 whites — and ruled it with a rod of iron, 
so that the natives obeyed and respected him in a 
manner which was his highest tribute. He went on 
many expeditions into the wilderness, and he always 
travelled imarmed save for a shotgun with which to 
bag game. 

He told us of a wonderful bathing place over on the 
other side of the fiord, and as we were hot and felt the 
need of cool fresh water after salt water hosings we 
made straight for it. It was certainly all he described 
it to be. 

A snow-white welter of foam hung like a veil down 




We caught mighty kingfish in the waters ofif Tahiti. 




(Upper): The Speejacks photographers, Ira J. Ingraham and 
Bernard F. Rogers, Jr. (Lower) : Dale Collins with some of the 
Australian bushmen on Palm Island. 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 73 

the face of the cliff for one hundred and fifty feet, and 
finished its great dive in a deep pool which had been 
dammed, the overflow forming a series of cascades to 
the water's edge. How we revelled in that bath ! How 
we splashed and disported ourselves in those bubbling 
depths! 

The sequel came several days later when we dis- 
covered that we had been bathing in the reservoir, and 
should only have used the cascades. We paid for our 
mistake, however, since we had to fill our own water 
tanks with our bath water! 

I never think of Tufi without hearing the throbbing 
of the drums — great drums, monotonous, persistent, 
unescapable, unvarying. There is no sound more 
primitive, more magical in summoning back the in- 
stincts of the dead centuries than a Papuan drum beat- 
ing like a human heart in the hot, oppressive, fecund 
tropic night. Your pulses race to a new tune, which 
is really as old as time, in unison with the vibrating 
boom of the beaten skin. 

Two hundred Korani tribesmen danced to those 
drums for us — danced in a great open clearing framed 
by palms against the sky. Torches flung fickle gold 
here and there, and in long swaying lines, in perfect 
unison, the wild and magnificent warriors stamped and 
turned and stamped and leaped. 

Some brandished spears and clubs, and the air was 
heavy with the acrid, pungent smell of brown men — 
not merely the smell of coconut oil but a distinctive, 
unforgettable, haunting, bitter-sweet stench. 



74 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Big men, these Korani, and dressed with wonderful 
art. Their headdresses were two feet high, framing 
their faces in a welter of brilliant bird-of-paradise 
plimies and cockatoo feathers; their noses and ears were 
pierced and distended with great pieces of shell; human 
teeth himg round their necks; their faces were blackened; 
cus-cus fur, feathers, and flowers were thick upon them, 
and at times they framed their heads with the great 
ivory beaks of the hombill which they wore dangling 
upon their breasts. 

Their drums were shaped in the form of a diabolo 
cone, hollowed out of a log and covered with the skin 
of a giant lizard known as the iguana, and in these 
strange instruments won straight from Nature they 
held Nature's music. 

I wish I could give to you the thrill of standing be- 
tween those swa3dng lines of nude savages in the deep 
dark. They seemed tremendous with their nodding 
headdresses in the varying of the gold torches. Their 
bare feet descended as one, and the ground trembled. 
It was best to be all alone away from the rest of the 
party with those hot, prancing figures black about you 
and giving you scarcely room to turn. Advancing, 
retreating, dipping, rising, and chanting in a weird high 
quaver a song which swelled up and died to nothing, to 
be started by some unseen singer in the line again and 
grow gradually to its full volume, only to die down. 
They enmeshed you in a barbaric net. Eyes rolled, 
teeth flashed, and the drums thudded, thudded, sweaty 
flesh gleamed, and muscles played like snakes. 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 75 

At the end of each line a little maid pranced with 
absurdly appropriate steps, not in the same way as the 
men but in exact time. You thought of a bird dancing. 

Round and round swept the devil's rout, the song 
rose and fell, and feet which had only trodden pavement 
ways found themselves moving uncontrollably to the 
commanding drums, and blood made sluggish by cen- 
turies of taming felt a new-old thrill in it and raced so 
that the breath came short and sharp. 

The air — ^the heavy, velvet air — shivered like flesh 
beneath the persistent kisses of the drums. 

Out of that hot tangle came one, six feet tall, a bold, 
commanding figure, with bloody veins in his great eyes, 
all hot and excited with the dance, red Hps curled back 
from black gums. 

"Mukawa am I,'' said he. "Gov'ment's friend!" 

His face showed dimly, the face of a leader, of an ego- 
tist, of a warrior. Through McDonald he talked to 
me. Told me how in the grand days he was one of the 
men of Governor Sir William MacGregor, Papua's grand 
old man. Told me of the flag MacGregor gave him 
which to this day is in his hut and which flies when 
strangers come to his village; told me that he had tasted 
human flesh and that his father was a cannibal. 

He pulled back the feathers from his arm to show an 
old spear wound, and boasted that he had killed three 
men in the Government's service. 

Once a complaint was lodged against Mukawa that 
he had shot a man without just cause. He was haled 
before the court, and shown through the window a great 



76 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

tree with a block and tackle on it. "Unless you make 
good talk, on that you swing," said the rough-and-ready 
magistrate. 

But he was acquitted when he told of 500 bad men 
advancing with spears upon himself and two other 
policemen, and of three shots which cowed a village. 

"I made good talk,'' said Mukawa. From his betel- 
nut stained mouth he spat upon the ground. 

"This land, my fathers'," said he, and stamped with 
his great foot — a princely figure there in the gloom, 
chest still heaving, great headdress nodding, big hand 
uplifted to heaven. Few Papuans impress you. 
Mukawa was one of the few. 

And all the time the drums throbbed, so Mukawa 
gave himself back to them. 

They would have danced all night and for three days 
and nights with but brief pauses for a smoke or a mouth- 
ful of food, but even R. M.'s have nerves and at 11 
p. M. that one white man sounded a blast on a bugle. 
Silence fell in a moment. The wild men heard and 
obeyed. One man, one foreigner, had lifted his hand 
and it was finished. He seemed a very quiet Scotch 
Australian, too. 

Every Christmas the Government gives a dance for 
the tribes. They bring their own food, which is bought 
from them and given back for their use. There is 
tobacco for all. These are wonderful times and good 
policy. For instance: the Koranis and the Okeins had 
an old feud. The vendetta grew from an attempt by 
the Okeins to drive the Korani people from their homes. 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 77 

They were repulsed. For years the bitterness lasted, 
but the wound was healed at a Christmas dance. 

It was a solemn ceremony. The two tribes came on 
to the ground speaking no word to each other, as was 
their custom. Each side was laden with food. Sud- 
denly the surprised magistrate saw the Okeins gathering 
up their goods. They carried them over and placed 
them before their enemies. The Korani folk did the 
same with the food they had brought. 

In peace they danced together, and in peace they 
dwell. 

In Papua they go into mourning much as we do — 
they wear black. But not having many clothes, they 
paint it on themselves. The Korani mourning is differ- 
ent. It resembles a coat of mail, and is made of small 
segments of white cane all strung together, a labour 
of months. At Tufi, too, we saw strange methods of 
shaving. One was to take a piece of fibre, twist it round 
a group of hairs and jerk them out by the roots. ("Him 
better this way, no grow so fast!") Another was to 
coat the face with some dreadful sticky concoction 
which dried hard and could then be peeled off, taking 
the hairs with it. After these, shaving with a shell or 
a piece of glass seemed easy, but the whole business 
raised the question of what motive actuates man in 
persisting in removing the hair which has been put on 
his face. 

The charts were vague about the reefs on the way to 
Wanigela, but we wanted to go there and Edward, our 
pilot, was quite sure of himself. So we decided to rivsk 



78 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

it. As it happened the morning was dead calm and 
the visibility was poor. You could not imagine a poorer 
day for detecting reefs. And we struck trouble despite 
all our look-outs — ^trouble in the shape of a coral mush- 
room. 

The engines were running slow at the time, and there 
was a sharp, grinding bump. It brought us on the nm 
like disturbed ants. Another bump and a third. 
Were we aground? Was this the end of the cruise? 
Now we had floated off, and a hasty examination showed 
that the Speejacks was not making water. We bobbed 
on that oily sea feeling heartily sorry for ourselves. 
Jack and his staff fussed about, and discovered that the 
starboard propeller was out of commission with a bent 
blade. 

Like a lame duck we waddled back to Tufi on a single 
engine, Jay and others making the run to Wanigela in 
a launch. 

We tied up again beside the dock and repair work 
was begun. Cap, Jack, and Oscar, armed with ham- 
mers and wrenches and in their swimming costumes, 
set to work to beat the blade back into shape. It was 
a long and tiresome task — ^have you ever tried to strike 
a hard blow about three feet under water? — ^but for 
hour upon hour they toiled in that wonderful water. 

Shoals of rainbow fish darted everywhere, and big 
sea snakes could be seen wriggling on the rocks ten 
fathoms down. The water was so warm that, with 
only their heads exposed, there was perspiration on 
their foreheads as they worked in the sun! 



MAD DRUMS OF THE DARK ISLAND 79 

At last the tough blade was beaten into something 
like its normal shape again, we continued our voyage 
and at dusk on the next evening we anchored at the 
last place in the world where news comes. Aku is its 
name. Rowing ashore we found a small and poor vil- 
lage inhabited by people of a distinctly Jewish cast of 
features, with their hair plastered up in mud. Pigs in 
hundreds precluded the inevitable suggestion of a Lost 
Tribe. 

An old man with the cunningest face you could wish 
to see hurried to greet us and help pull the boat ashore. 
He was breathless with excitement. 

"German fight he feenish yet?'' was his eager ques- 
tion. 

For a moment we gasped, then we assured him that 
it was. He seemed relieved. Maybe the presence of 
our strange craft in the offing flying a strange flag had 
caused him some unrest. 

He jabbered the big news to his people as they 
crouched about the fire, and they clucked their ap- 
proval. 

"Who win— English?" 

Again we gave him good news. His broken black 
teeth showed in a grin. 

"Germans he feenish!" was his comment. 

He explained, then, that he had returned from Port 
Moresby seven years before, having completed his time 
in the constabulary. Since that memorable home- 
coming no news from the world outside had reached 
Aku, and often he had wondered about the big fight. 



80 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

At Buna Bay next day we saw another fine native 
dance, on this occasion by the Orikiva tribesmen. It 
was very similar to the other, but the costumes varied. 
Many of the men wore headdresses made of hombill 
beaks. When pointed outward these signified that the 
wearer had killed a man, but when inward the meaning 
was merely that the man's father had done so. 

Here we saw a native coiner at work making the red 
shell money which is worth £6 a string. It was a long 
process, the hole in the centre being gradually worn in 
each piece by a rotating stick propelled by a pedal. 

In the night we went ashore and saw an informal 
dance which, though on a smaller scale than others, 
was impressive and haunting, many of the men being 
drunk with betel-nut and excitement. Jay lit one of 
his brilliant calcium photographic flares and the dancers 
swayed and stamped in wild delight. And the drums 
were there, too, potent in magic as ever. 

We left British New Guinea behind with their sombre, 
barbaric rhythm in our ears, for in the morning we 
headed out to the open sea again, and from the beach 
came the thud! thud! thud! of the beaten lizard's skin, 
the soul of the dark island singing. 

Those drums will call us back some day. 




Mr. and Mrs. E. N. Banfield of Dunk Island, off the coast of 
Australia. Mr. Banfield is the author of "The Confessions of a 
Beachcomber." 



CHAPTER VI 

Isles in a Living Sea, and a Lost Barque 

We were out on the purple ocean. Astern, New 
Guinea had drowned in the sea; the Trobriand Islands 
were below the horizon ahead; it was a sunny afternoon 
and the ship drowsed along. I was sitting on the tall 
stool at the wheel, dreaming. 

Suddenly a cry from forward: 

"Hey, Cap, you can see the bottom here!*' 

One of the engineers, watching the bow wave and 
thinking of a girl in Sydney town, made the discovery. 

There were moments of thrill and suspense. The 
charts showed here open ocean with never a trace of a 
reef. The engine-room signal tinkled for slow ahead, 
and we crept on, all hands, save one very concerned 
person at the wheel, watching the sea-bed coming up to 
meet us through the clear water. 

"Only about two fathoms, now!" 

Just when it began to look as though we would have 
to send the dinghy ahead and take soundings, the un- 
charted reef came to an end and there was nothing to 
be seen beneath us save those mysterious depths. But 
we had become explorers. 

Sunset came with great fortresses of cloud standing 
black against the horizon, their windows lit in brilliance 
by quick tropic lightning. Heavy drops of rain thudded 

81 



82 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

on the awning, and Jean having tactfully disappeared 
below, there was a rush for soap and towels, and stand- 
ing up in the slow lifting bow we enjoyed nature's own 
shower bath in the warm rain which beat down so hard 
that the skin tingled and you had to shield your face 
from the silver javelins. 

Porpoises were all about us later, not as you see them 
from the big liners but so close that it seemed you could 
lean down and stroke them. Round about those shim- 
mering shuttles weaved a lace of light, and we went 
through the dark with an escort of living flame. 

It was wonderful to lie astern, refreshed by the cool- 
ing bath, and, voyaging through this magic night, yam 
on unceasingly to friendly faces seen dim and pale. 

On the second day we came to the isles of pearl, to 
the Trobriands — low, lonely, mysterious, lost in a sea 
which lived. 

Into the anchorage we crept, feeling our way cau- 
tiously. Reefs abounded, and finally we anchored 
about four miles from shore. The choice was largely 
due to *'Speejacks luck," and when the resident magis- 
trate came out in his launch to us he announced that 
another twenty yards would have put us high and dry. 

It is of the living sea that I carry the strongest im- 
pression. By night the whole of that shallow lagoon 
was lit with life. Every wavelet broke into diamonds, 
great sharks passed by like Zeppelins in the beam of a 
searchlight, sea snakes twisted and darted in numbers 
beyond counting, each a gleaming thread up to six feet 
in length. 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 83 

To appreciate this sea you had to travel in a canoe 
paddled by naked savages who stood against the stars, 
like fantastic figures cut from cardboard. Before the 
bow on every side shoals of fish, all aglow, darted away, 
as though Neptune held fireworks. The simile was in- 
evitable, for the effect was of great rockets bursting in 
the gleaming depths. The snakes tied their fantastic 
knots, and now and then, far down, passed great shapes 
of dim light, mysterious and gruesome. The sea was 
ablaze, the bow ripple was white quartz, and at every 
dip of those quiet paddles the fishy rockets burst in 
glory. 

No wonder that from such a sea the divers bring up 
great glowing pearls. The very water had the colour 
of pearl, the attraction of pearl. It was a giant gem on 
the world's throat. 

A big ship never comes to the Trobriands, to these 
isles of isolation. We had reached the places where, 
instead of the comment being, "What a tiny boat!'' 
the general opinion was, "You've got a fine big ship 
here! " The group lies low in the water like a school of 
whales, and the highest point on the main island is 
but 135 feet above sea level. It is 35 miles in length 
and 25 in width at its widest point, and here 20 whites 
live among 9,000 natives. 

At one time the natives were noted for their immoral- 
ity and the prevalence of disease among them. Here 
came whalers, black-birders, and other dark ships in 
the old days, and there were wild doings among the 
palms. Careful control by the resident magistrates — 



84 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

splendid men of a splendid service — has changed all 
that. To-day the islands are as moral as any and the 
percentage of disease is lower than in many cities of the 
old world. 

In his open-sided house among the palms and looking 
along croton-lined paths to a giant banyan tree, we saw 
the magistrate go through a normal day's work. 

He started at 6 A. m. in the tiny, palm-roofed hospital 
with three operations, which were quite successful, 
although he does not hold a doctor's degree and gained 
his experience with the Army Medical Corps. His only 
assistant was an intelligent native policeman. He in- 
spected the other patients and prescribed treatment for 
them, and then, after breakfast, held a court at which 
he dispensed rough-and-ready justice, collecting the 
fines himself, or setting the culprits to work on the 
paths under guard. His afternoon was occupied with 
receiving the weekly reports from a score of village 
constables who had come in from various parts of the 
group. His evening he gave up to us, but in the or- 
dinary course of events he would have spent it upon his 
work of producing a reliable map of the group, a task 
not yet accomplished. 

From the sea the islands look sombre, but they are 
of much beauty when you land. Under the direction 
of a previous magistrate 40,000 palms were planted, 
and the isle was bisected by scores of neat coral paths, 
the sections of the paths and the trees being under the 
care of specified groups of natives. It is a wonderful 
experience to walk these quiet ways, coming upon 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 85 

village after village. The natives are of a higher and 
more attractive type than the mainlanders, and the 
girls, some of whom have real beauty, wear a jaunty 
rami not more than six inches in length and bunched 
over the hips most gracefully. 

They carve very well, these islanders, and they 
flocked to us offering weird betel-nut crushers, canoes, 
paddles, spears, bowls, figure-heads, and so on, all shaped 
with much skill. The carving is done directly into the 
wood without any pattern, and the rough knives never 
slip. 

Here, again, dancing is in favour, and we saw one 
very esthetic and serious gentleman go through a long 
solo dance, an affair of many gestures and posings 
which might well have told the story of a Trobriand 
Salome. 

Truth to say, however, our opinion of the islanders 
slumped a little when we saw a woman suckling a pig. 
Our surprise was laughed to scorn. It was quite a 
usual thing. Babies were common enough, but a fat 
pig was hard to come by. 

They were kindly folk, however, and once when we 
were walking through the endless paths, Paulo, that 
worthy policeman who was a nurse in his odd moments, 
decided that Jean looked weary. He spoke a word to 
some villagers and in a moment they were at work 
constructing a great stretcher of bows and palm fronds, 
on which six of them carried her shoulder high, laughing 
in glee as they panted along. 

That was on the eventful day we killed the bullock. 



86 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"We're just about out of meat," Bert had announced, 
and so we bought a bullock. 

Then the ship's company, armed with rifles and 
knives, set out to butcher the beast. They had a 
strenuous time — so had the bullock. The first few shots 
failed to hit a vital spot, and the infuriated animal 
charged down upon a group of natives who were watch- 
ing, entranced. There was a frantic rush for shelter, 
and one native planted a spear in the beast's hide as 
it dashed by. 

A couple of more shots missed entirely, and ultimately 
a pearler despatched the bullock with an ancient shot- 
gun. 

The captain did most of the cutting up, a far from 
pleasant job out there in the broiling sun, with the dead 
animal's companion lowing in the vicinity and making 
occasional charges. All hands were sadly weary and 
stained at the conclusion of that novel day's work, but 
even though it had not been butchered in the most 
fashionable manner, the meat tasted good to us for 
many weeks afterward. 

We saw sunsets to tug the heart strings in that quiet 
lagoon; sunsets which out there at the end of the world 
made for long thoughts of home; sunsets which put a 
sudden lump in the throat. 

All the sky blazed up in a sudden wonder of helio- 
trope, mauve and pink and scarlet, blending into shades 
beyond description. Great shafts and bursts of vivid 
primary hues burned against the faintest of tints. The 
air was heavy and hot and the sky throbbed. The 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 87 

colours faded and the sunset died. Then the late moon 
showed thin and white, only to die also beneath the 
sky*s rim. The great stars hung out their lanterns, 
but these, too, died before advancing clouds which 
wrapped them in dark shrouds. The air was heavy 
as death itself and the black sky seemed to be the top 
of a tomb. Then, quick and sudden, came clean rain, 
and a breeze ran in from the sea, bringing mad, merry 
whitecaps and a message of resurrection and new life. 

Fortunate, indeed, was Ellis Silas, author of "Cru- 
sading at Anzac," whom we found here painting with 
talented brush the strange beauty of the group, and 
striving very hard to catch its indefinable difference 
and charm. 

We stayed here longer than we had intended, for 
the captain developed malaria. Fever lurks every- 
where in the group, and it is taken as a matter of course. 
All the whites have quinine as a regular portion of their 
diet, and even the babies have it rubbed beneath their 
arms. It is not all romance being a pioneer. If you 
develop blackwater there is nothing for it but a trip of 
hundreds of miles to Samarai in a tiny motor launch, 
with Death as a sailing companion. 

For several days the captain's temperature stood well 
above the centurymark, and things began to look gloomy. 
Water supplies were running short and we could delay 
no longer. Ultimately A. Y. laid out a course and we 
headed on again, leaving behind that strangely haunting 
place with much regret. 

And, of course, because we were one short on the 



88 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

wheel, we ran into black, bad weather which tossed our 
little ship about until, looking down the deck, you 
thought of a match in delirium. 

Now it so happened that in my clippings book was a 
verse I had published some years before — a verse which 
was in the nature of a prayer and which had been an- 
swered. It started this way: 

Some day I shall go out and find strange lands 

Wonderful under new skies; 
Touch the great statues of bronze which cunning 
hands 

Shaped smooth when the East was wise; 
Taste the salt kiss of the ocean's wet lip, 

Hear the Trades shout in the ropes. 
Feel the quick shuddering joy of a ship — 

These are my hopes. 

And — being a very young man — I had shown the book 
to Jean. As I stood in the horrible night struggling 
with the wheel and the yacht staggered beneath the 
waves' blows, her voice came from the gloom outside. 

"*Feel the quick shuddering joy of a ship!'" she 
quoted. 

The wind laughed and the sea laughed. So did we all. 

After long hours dawn came like a gray hag, stagger- 
ing across the gray world of sea and chilled with the 
gray rain. 

Supplies of water and gasoline were running very 
short, and this wild sea, carrying the threat of strange 
tides and sets, was the last thing we desired with the 



^<**¥^'^^^ 


1 f J 


L 


w-m ^ ^'ci t 





Savage Australian bushmen who have been deported to Palm Is- 
land. The drop-stitch effect ofpersonal decoration is made with lime. 




New Guinea tribesmen in a war canoe. They came out to greet 
the Speejacks at Hood Inlet. 




^— > 

I 

'B 

O 



a; 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 89 

captain still ill. There was nothing for it, however, 
but to plug along. 

The first light of dawn on the second day found us 
scanning the waters anxiously. And all was well. 
The hummocked shapes of the Solomon Islands were 
all about. We were just where we should have been. 
Before lunch we had crept into the snug anchorage of 
Shortland Harbour, where, hemmed in on all sides by 
the long, graceful avenues of a coconut plantation, we 
were set in a scene of rare beauty. 

Out from the shore came a big cutter manned by 
"boys" who handled their oars with the precision and 
style of a naval crew. The reason was not far to seek. 
The Solomons are under the direct control of Britain, 
and the resident here was an Imperial army officer, a 
type. He dressed for dinner, alone in the wilderness, 
waited on by one white-eyed nigger boy, read Punch 
and the weekly papers and longed for all the dear 
haunts "down West." But his station and the disci- 
pline were splendid. 

We had thought that Papuans were dark-skinned, but 
they were white when compared with these Solomon 
Island boys. Their skins were literally the colour of 
coals, black as night, and well-built little nuggets of 
men they were. 

What follows sounds like stretching the long arm of 
coincidence for dramatic effect, but, hand on heart, 
I promise you it is true. 

"Fm afraid I have bad news," said the resident, 
"You were expecting some benzine here, I believe?" 



90 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Indeed, we were. It had been shipped from Sydney- 
three months ago, our tanks were empty. 

"The schooner William H. Smith was supposed to 
bring it," he said. "She is months overdue. I think 
if I may I will have to report her missing by a wireless 
message from your plant!" 

You may well imagine how our faces lengthened. 
Here we were thousands of miles out in the wilderness 
with the prospect of having to wait idly for months 
until the necessary fuel arrived to carry us on, for a 
shipment could be obtained only from Sydney. And 
then the gloom of a possible loss at sea of ship and crew 
on a mission specially for us. . . . 

We were sitting round debating this serious position, 
when — ^hand on heart! — round a coconut-clad island 
came a bowsprit; then a white winged, four-masted 
barque bowling in with a following breeze. She flew 
the American flag. Hastily we picked up the glasses 
and read her name on the bow — " William H. Smith,'' 

And this is the story we heard from the square 
Danish- American skipper when we stood on her broad 
deck in the shadow of her great black spars. 

She was fifty-nine days out from Sydney on a journey 
which should have occupied eighteen days. For 
twenty-six days she had been in sight of the southerly 
islands of the group, and had been trapped in a dead 
calm, currents carrying her back farther than she could 
advance. During that time the sails were hoisted and 
lowered forty-two times, and she made twenty miles. 

The captain, two mates, and three raw boys picked 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 91 

up in Sydney ran the ship, and the skipper's wife and 
family were aboard. And here you come to the strang- 
est part of all: owing to the long delay on the voyage 
a son was born to the captain, and the "old man*' 
acted as doctor and nurse. Mother and baby were 
thriving when we saw them, and we made a strong 
claim that the youngster should be named for us. But 
mother favoured Eric. 

Two waterspouts were narrowly dodged on that 
eventful voyage, but the skipper regarded the whole 
business as part of the day's work. They were to load 
copra when they had supplied us with our fuel, and 
would then start for San Francisco. We expressed the 
hope that they would not take as long to travel twenty 
miles on that trip. 

"What matter is it?" growled the old man. "We 
have a year's food aboard and this is my home just as 
much as a landsman's is!" 

Two months overdue and arriving within two hours 
of us — not bad, even for Speejacks luck! 

Seldom has Shortland Harbour seen such activity 
as followed. We came alongside the barque and, with 
a plentiful supply of coal-black labour, the task of 
pouring the gasoline into our tanks went on while on 
the other side a fleet of outrigger canoes carried the 
empty tins over to a spring in the hillside and brought 
them back filled with water for us. 

It was a splendid method of getting the work out of 
the way, but we regretted it somewhat later when all 
our drinking water for weeks tasted strongly of oil! 



92 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Then, but only then, everybody realized that the tins 
should have been burned out before they were used. 

The natives reaped a great harvest when, the work 
completed, 700 tins were sent drifting down the harbour. 

That evening we saw a striking picture at the resi- 
dent's house set on the top of a beautiful hill, looking 
out across palms and vivid green islands to the aching 
blue of the Pacific, with here and there along the coast 
great spurs of white foam flung up from coral reefs. 
The house itself was set in a bower of luxuriance. 
Palms, kapok trees, pineapple bushes, peanut plants, 
orange trees, gorgeous flowering vines — all the fruit, 
flowers, and vegetables of the tropics were there. 

As the sun fell down the western sky, the sound of 
marching feet came up the coral steps leading to the 
house. The magistrate straightened himself up, but- 
toned the collar of his white coat, put on his helmet, and 
took his stick. 

"Come and see us salute the flag!" he invited as he 
took up his position on the step of the veranda. 

A flag pole stood on the neat lawn in front of the 
house, and the Union Jack fluttered out against the 
glory of the sunset and the wide ocean. Into view 
swung a squad of eight coal-black police under the 
charge of a coal-black corporal. They wore the neat 
blue kilt and round sailor hats and white belts of the 
force and they carried rifles with fixed bayonets. 

" Halt ! " shouted the corporal. 

He stepped with great solemnity to the pole. 

The ceremony was carried out with a precision which 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 93 

might have been envied by a crack regiment. The 
corporal shouted his orders very fiercely in pidgin 
English, the glistening guard presented arms and sa- 
luted in perfect time, and with style the flag came 
drooping down, and was carefully folded away. There 
was a click of bare heels and a stamp of bare feet and 
the squad marched briskly away down to the barracks 
below. Up to us floated the voice of the corporal, still 
very fierce though out of sight. 

"They like it," said the magistrate. "And it's good 
for them.*' 

We agreed with him, for there had been a real thrill 
in that ceremony of the tropic sunset hour. 

We sat late that night in that wonderful garden 
beneath the^ enormous stars, while a myriad fireflies 
twinkled and glowed in the calm air. Several traders 
drifted in and they told strange tales of these wild 
islands, where, even to-day, there are places where no 
man may go unless he is on a punitive expedition and 
has many rifles behind him. 

Choiseul, Bougainville, Malaita — all these are bad 
islands where death is given lightly as a word. 

Here there are still headhunters, and there is keen, 
and very genuine, competition between the villages for 
the finest collection. The law runs in these islands: 
a head for a head. There is no appeal. An attack on 
a Government launch was repulsed only after the loss 
of a life just before we arrived, and there are many 
places where even recruiters in quest of labour are 
allowed to go only in couples, and where, instead of 



94 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

landing themselves, the white men lie off in their cutters 
and send their head boys ashore. 

In gaol at Shortland Harbour were two interesting 
murderers. Both had acted quite in accordance with 
the custom of the country, but the annoying whites 
would not recognize the fact. 

One gentleman had killed another because he had 
prayed for rain and his prayer had been answered. 
You might say there was no harm in that, but you see 
the first gentleman's wife had climbed a coconut palm 
after the rain, and the trunk being slippery she had 
fallen and killed herself. 

**Fault belong him!" said the indignant husband. 
He slew the man with a spear. 

The second boy explained his lapse thus: "He killed 
my brother so I killed his uncle.'* 

A head for a head, you see! 

These and many other strange stories were told to us 
quite casually in the firefly-spangled dark. Do you 
wonder that we sat late and paid no heed to the busy 
mosquitoes? 

Permission to land on the wildest islands was refused 
to us — "you might get hurt and you mightn't, but also 
you might kill somebody and that would be a nuisance " 
— and so we headed on for Kieta, away up on Bougain- 
ville. 

We arrived there late in the afternoon, lacking a large- 
scale chart and fully advised of the difficulty of the 
entrance. An exciting hour followed. 

Between us and our destination was a great white 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 95 

sweep of foam, where the ocean ground its teeth on a 
coral reef. The reef ran for miles in a huge semi-circle 
and as we cruised along it there seemed to be no gap, 
no entrance. The sun was dying, a heavy rainstorm 
swept down upon us, making the light poorer, and still 
we blundered on with the white mane of the waves 
always to port as they crashed down with a boom upon 
the coral wall. 

Louis was perched on the swaying masthead, and all 
hands were on the look-out. Just when it seemed that 
the sun would win the race, that there was nothing to 
do save put to sea and try again in the morning — an 
unpleasant prospect with the first breaths of a high 
breeze lifting the rollers already — we spied a gap in 
that gleaming line of teeth. There was no means of 
telling whether it was a false hope or not, so the dinghy 
was put over, and Jack and Oscar rowed away, looking 
absurdly powerless in the tiny cockleshell, which rose 
and fell on every wave so that we lost sight of them 
completely when they went down into the troughs. 

They sounded carefully and waved for us to follow, 
and so we crept in through that narrow gap with the 
surf splashing ten feet into the air on either hand and 
so close that it clouded the glass on the front of the 
wheelhouse. 

Ah, but it was good to enter into that quiet harbour 
just as the light died ! A strange hush was on the place 
and as we felt our way along from beacon to beacon the 
great towering hills gave a sombre, secret feeling which 
was dispelled only by the warm gold of the windows of 



96 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the four houses in the tiny settlement set high upon 
the slopes. 

And when we anchored we learned that, after all, 
we had come by the wrong entrance and that nobody 
had ever dared that passage before! 

At one time Kieta was a German town, the capital 
of Germany's Solomon Island possessions. To-day, 
however, the Australians control it under a Peace Con- 
ference mandate, and we were welcomed with great joy 
by the tiny band who were isolated in that place of som- 
bre charm. 

Voices were raised in song which shattered the stillness 
of the night, and there were many drinks on the broad 
veranda of the house which looked out across the silent 
harbour. Several former naval men were among our 
hosts, and we sang chanties together, while a little 
gnome of a whiskered man insisted upon delivering an 
address upon the Lost Tribes. 

He was a solemn little man who had spent long years 
in the islands, doing Allah alone knows what, and he 
was urged on to fresh flights of eloquence by a great, 
gaunt man with a long black beard who had been a 
chief petty officer in the navy before he became a diver 
and trader. 

The little man sat down at last where there was no 
chair, and his fall filling him with new vigour he bounced 
up again, and read our characters very shrewdly from 
our handwriting. 

Meanwhile, from the gaol close at hand came the 
yells of a native prisoner who had killed two of his own 




New Guinea head-hunters on dress parade. The gentleman in 
the lower right-hand photograph is Agar, bad man of Mukawa dis- 
trict. Lower Left: A New Guinea native wearing a mourning 
garb, made by sewing shells on pigskin or dogskin. 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 97 

race and two Chinamen and was very anxious to realize 
his ambition to murder a white man. 

Great moths came in out of the gloom and flaipped 
about the lamps, the murderer's yells clashed with our 
singing, the wind shouted among the palms — ^it was a 
mad night. 

Kieta is happier than some of the places we visited 
because it is in touch with the outside world by means 
of wireless. Here is published what must be one of 
the smallest papers in the world. It is one sheet of 
typewriting and has a circulation of eighteen copies. 
It may be unassuming, but it gave us news of the 
big world outside which we had almost forgotten. 

On the following afternoon we met Kieta at cricket. 
The Americans aboard had never seen the game played, 
but we were undaunted. To avoid the travail of run- 
ning in the hot sun runs were allowed for hits past cer- 
tain points — ^into the sea being six, but you had to 
recover the ball. 

The game waxed fast and furious and native boys 
were sent scurrying up palms to bring down green coco- 
nuts for us to quench our thirst. 

Speejacks batted first — or rather "swiped'* first. 
We hit hard and chanced to luck that, if we missed, the 
ball would also fail to find the wicket. 

There were many cries of "Hey, boy, another coco- 
nut!" 

All out for 45 we tackled the local team, but just as 
it seemed that victory was certain, A. Y. arrived seem- 
ing far from pleased at our sporting proclivities. 



H^b 



98 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"WeVe got to get out through the reef," he yelled, 
"and you promised to be aboard at 4 o'clock. It's 
half-past now. You're a fine lot!" 

But our blood was up. On a yachting trip you never 
consider the feelings of the owner; he is only there for 
your benefit. And so while he flitted about the ground 
like a dark shadow on a sunny afternoon we finished 
the game, and won by three runs. 

Back to the ship we fled and found the captain fum- 
ing. It was five-thirty and the light was waning. 

"Well, we'll make a try for it," said he. 

"See you again in about two hours," shouted the 
entire population of Kieta. 

We thought otherwise. Down that long harbour we 
went and the night threw her nets over us. Then 
came black walls of rain, and there was nothing to be 
seen beyond the bow save thick nothingness. We 
didn't want to go back, you know, and we fumbled on. 
From ahead came the voice of the surf. The search- 
light was turned on but its bright sword was conquered 
by the gloom. Never a trace of the guiding beacon 
could we find, but instead into that shortened ray there 
leaped suddenly a white smother of foam. 

The reef was perilously near, and our resolution 
weakened. The surf seemed all about us now. And 
so we turned and crept back to Kieta and its amused 
inhabitants. We had beaten them at cricket, but in so 
doing had suffered defeat at the hands of their harbour. 

At dawn we slipped away, and running all day along 
the coast of Bougainville came with the night to Buka 



ISLES IN A LIVING SEA 99 

Passage at the extreme northern end, where in a narrow 
sea-road between two islands we anchored in a regular 
tide race. A strange place this, too. High red cliffs 
shut us in on either side, and from the shore twinkled 
the lone light of a Chinese store. On the crest of those 
great walls palms and trees stood silhouetted against 
the sky bright with moonbeams. 

We kept anchor watches, which was well, for in that 
strong tide the hook dragged and we were swept right 
under the shadow of the cliffs before the engines were 
awakened and drove us out into mid-stream again. It 
was very peaceful and shut off in that swirling silver 
lane, hushed in the arms of the night. The round 
moon climbed high and mosquitoes came flocking out 
to this rich treasure ship. The anchor chain groaned 
and muttered as the yacht tugged, and the quick water 
swirled by, chuckling. 

The world seemed far away. We had come 3,300 
miles since leaving Sydney and had called at twenty-one 
ports. We were buried in the wilderness of the sea. 

That night ashore two gentlemen had a disagreement 
about a lady and one was stabbed to death. We heard 
his cries. The moral is that there is no escape from the 
eternal triangle. 



CHAPTER VII 

A ''WeV* Town and the Island Called ''The Beautiful 
Lady with the Poisoned Lips'' 

"Read the log, somebody/' said the captain as we 
headed in for Rabaul. 

Jay went astern to do so, and he came back smil- 
ing. 

"Log's gone, Cap!'' quoth he, and there was some- 
thing in his voice reminiscent of a schoolboy who tells 
how his respected uncle slipped on a banana peel. It is 
a strange trait in human nature, this impish glee in 
untoward happenings. 

The log had gone right enough. A big fish had 
snapped off the twirling propeller which trailed astern. 

When Germany was a Pacific power she chose Ra- 
baul on the island of New Britain as her capital, and 
built it with German thoroughness. It is a beautiful 
place, younger than Samarai or Moresby, but larger 
and better in every respect. The town nestles at the 
foot of a large volcano, which is known as The Mother. 
On either side stand twin smaller peaks which are 
named The North Daughter and The South Daughter. 
Sheltered by those high ranges it can be very hot and 
stifling. But it is a pleasant place. 

Things are changed in Rabaul under the new Austra- 
lian regime. In the old days the natives were kept 

100 



A "WET" TOWN 101 

under strong discipline and were expected to step off 
the pavement whenever one of their rulers passed. 
To-day the natives are being spoiled, if anything, and 
there are some of the older residents who sigh regret- 
fully for the stem times of old. But then, as one of the 
new administrators put it, the natives really own the 
country, and it is more just that they should be pam- 
pered than flogged and ill-treated as they were in the 
past. 

In Rabaul you live always in a botanical garden. 
Every street is arched over with greenery and each of 
the big, roomy bungalows built high upon piles has its 
garden surrounding it. The town is clean and well 
kept and the Germans drove fine roads out into the 
surrounding country. 

Now it so happened that we arrived at Rabaul at 
Easter, and we were whirled up in a round of gaiety. 
Among the "wet'' places of the world this town must 
take a high place, certainly in holiday mood. We 
saw more liquor consumed there in four days than 
any of us had ever seen drunk before in a fortnight. 
Day and night it kept up, and there were wild times in 
the clubs. For a while you were puzzled when you 
saw Government clerks buying magnums of cham- 
pagne, but the means to the end was provided by the 
"chit system'' — that most undesirable custom which 
has landed many a man into trouble in the East. 

Nobody pays cash — you simply sign a chit. It gives 
you a feeling that it is all very easy and inexpensive — 
but that sensation wears off at the end of the month 



102 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

when all those little dockets come fluttering in to you 
like homing pigeons. 

One morning I had occasion to call upon a citizen at 
6.30. He woke up sleepily and looked about him, for 
it had been a long and damp night before. 

"Boy! Boy!" he yelled. "Fetch one feller bottle 
of champagne!'' 

He drank that down before breakfast. 

Of course, it is not always as bad as that in Rabaul, 
and, anyway, far be it from us to throw the first stone. 
We had a wonderful time there. 

All through the western Pacific pidgin English is 
used to speak to the natives. The great majority under- 
stand it. It is really far more involved and bewildering 
than straight talk, but they do not seem to be able to 
follow ordinary language. 

Thus if you said to a boy, "Take this gentleman to 
the barber's!" he might be puzzled. 

"Take this master to feller cut grass belong him!" 
is the proper order, and that would be grasped at once. 

In this strange Double Dutch a pier becomes 
"bridge"; the sea, "soda water"; a box, "bokkus"; 
little, "lik-lik"; and when you warned a boy not to let 
his canoe scratch the paintwork of the yacht you 
shouted, "No let 'im fight ship"! On account of the 
fact that it deals in checks a bank is known as "house 
gammon money," as against the "house money," which 
means the Treasury, where the natives consider business 
is carried out in real money. 

In the gracious and roomy Government House on 



A "WET" TOWN 103 

the slopes of the volcanic peak we were entertained at 
dinner by Lt. Col. Wanliss, who was acting as adminis- 
trator in the absence of his chief, who was away on 
business in Australia. 

It was a delightful evening, a quaint mixture of the 
formal and the bizarre. Sentries, half-naked brown 
men, presented arms as we entered; waiters, who were 
small and very serious brown boys, brought us cock- 
tails; we danced to the music of a gramophone super- 
vised by more boys, who were liable to put on an opera 
selection for a fox trot. It was a warm night, and I 
recall with sorrow the tribulations we suffered wearing 
dinner suits and boiled shirts for the first time in many 
moons. We arrived back at the yacht happy but look- 
ing as though our clothes had been half laundered when 
we put them on. 

We were anchored in a harbour of schooners and 
queer former German steamers, and with so much ship- 
ping it was strange to see the unceasing interest of the 
natives in each new arrival. 

! "Sail-o!" would be the cry the moment a ship ap- 
peared, and it was said in the town that the natives 
knew of the coming of big steamers before the author- 
ities did, the news being signalled by smoke and beating 
drums from villages along the coast. 

Chinatown was full of interest, and here for the first 
time we learned the lesson, which has been written 
deeply in our minds since, that the Chinese are the 
greatest traders in the world, and that they can amass 
wealth where a white man would starve. Most of the 



104 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

motor cars in Rabaul are the property of Chinese. 
They run the largest accounts at the stores, and control 
most of the cash. There are two hotels in Chinatown, 
a theatre, numerous shops where many curios are sold, 
and cafes beyond counting. 

It was good, too, as a change from ship fare, to go to 
one of these Chinese restaurants where for a few shillings 
could be obtained a tremendous feast of steak and eggs 
with a bottle of beer. 

It seemed quite strange to ride in a car again, and 
motoring on this island has its peculiar features. 
Everybody drives at breakneck speed and the rules 
seem to be that pedestrians must keep clear. As a 
result your progress is marked by a kind of bow wave 
of natives fleeing for safety. Staid Chinese merchants 
riding on bicycles solemnly pedal their machines into 
the bush and fall off when a car approaches. They 
seem to have no idea of steering. 

By night Rabaul is jewelled with a million fireflies 
which flit everywhere against a backgroimd of velvet 
sky and heavy greenery; from Chinatown comes the 
tinkle of quaint instruments, and over the bay float 
the voices of natives singing and the occasional mutter 
of a drum. There are always romance and glamour 
in the tropics in the soft arms of night. 

We had intended to haul the boat out here and have 
the damaged propeller mended, but the price asked by 
the Japanese who o\\Tied the slipway was excessive, and 
so we decided to push on and dock in Java. By this 
time the Speejacks bore a resemblance to a floating 




CO 



5 









A "WET" TOWN 105 

museum with curios of all descriptions poked into every 
comer. Normally there was no room to spare, but 
when it came to carrying great king spears twelve feet 
in length, huge bowls, and all the other trophies we had 
gathered, it was difficult to walk along the deck. Here, 
accordingly, the greater proportion were packed and 
shipped back to America and we had space to turn 
round again. 

As we were leaving civilization behind for months 
we shaved our heads! 

Bill started it, and he looked so cool and clean that 
we decided to follow suit. You really have no idea 
how funny you look until you see yourself with a shaven 
poll. We had all the appearance of desperate criminals, 
of absurd Easter eggs, of bladders of lard. The idea 
grew up out of a bet at luncheon, and there was no 
escaping from the solemn promises made. 

As the ship rolled along, one after another sat down 
aft and the clippers were passed right over our heads, 
neck to brow. Meanwhile, the entire ship's company 
stood about and made ribald remarks.* 

A close scrutiny in two mirrors was an advisable 
precaution suggested by seeing "Bumey" walking 
about well satisfied, little knowing that a fimny little 
tuft like a comb had been left sticking out at the back. 

Two days out we came through a reef-strewn passage 
into the great basin of Seaadler Harbour on Manus 
Island in the Admiralty Group. Here we found an- 



*It will be noticed that at this time Mrs. Gowen had for a while left the ship. 
She rejoined it some time later.— Ed. 



lOS SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

other spick-and-span, typically German settlement 
imder the control of Australia. We landed, feeling 
somewhat dubious about taking off our hats and reveal- 
ing our egg-like heads, but discovered that we were 
quite in the fashion since everybody had had a similar 
tropical cut. 

' Here, again, we were received with the wonderful 
hospitality which had been ours everywhere we went. 
In all these lost comers of the world the men who 
usually lived frugally enough gave banquets for us and 
nothing was too much trouble for them. Ours was a 
royal progress, welcomed everywhere as bringing new 
life and a breath of the outside world into the isolation. 
I Fine totem poles — huge affairs sixteen feet in length 
and a mass of weird carvings chipped out of a solid log 
— shields, and other excellent samples of native work 
were picked up here, and one sportsman tossed A. Y. 
"double or quits" for a fine collection probably worth 
£40. Of course A. Y. won. He always did — as we 
were to learn later when the gambling mania struck 
the ship. We called him then "the man with the 
horseshoe," and before it was all over only the very 
brave or rash dared test their luck against his. 

In quest of photographs we left next day on an ex- 
cursion, and had a fine opportunity to see the native 
police at work. Their energy, their physique, and their 
good temper were surprising. They rowed us three 
miles under the baking tropical sun, which was so hot 
that the perspiration showed through your coat even 
when you were sitting still. 



A "WET" TOWN 107 

The way was along a still and steamy channel 
hemmed in on either side by unvarying mangrove 
swamps. The men wore blue scolloped tunics trimmed 
with red, sailor hats on their frizzy hair, a white military 
belt pipeclayed and spotlessly clean. Their rifles were 
piled beside them. In contrast with their neat uniforms 
were their tattooed faces, their arm and leg bands, and 
their pierced noses and ears. But they were a cheery 
crew. 

Grinning and chatting they tugged with short, neat 
strokes at their long oars and drove the heavy gig along 
against a strong current. And even at the end of their 
big effort they were able to put on a final spurt which 
drove us into the shallows from which they carried us 
ashore. 

Here, in a strange, ugly, sinister village we saw a 
native dance which was a masterpiece of obscenity. A 
gruesome, nauseating spectacle were these old men 
stepping unashamedly to the music of great drums ten 
feet in length and hollowed out of trees. You spat as 
you left the unclean place. 

Better to watch were those sturdy policemen lifting 
our boat back with as much zest as ever. And, after 
dinner, they completed an enjoyable day by rowing us 
out to the Speejacks through a heavy sea. We gave 
them some tobacco and left them well content, chatter- 
ing merrily as they bent to their oars again and drove 
their gig home through the night and the white-capped 
waves. 

Men who live at Maron call the island "the beautiful 



108 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

lady with the poisoned lips." But we voyagers, whose 
stay was so brief that her fatal kiss meant nothing, will 
remember her always for her beauty only, for her lonely 
beauty, for her lonely charm. 

Of all the places we visited Maron is ever memorable 
as the most isolated and out-of-the-way comer of the 
world we saw. You will not find it marked on the 
ordinary maps, but it is in the well-named Hermit 
Group to the west and north of the Admiralty Islands, 
a tropic gem shut off by foam-flecked seas. In the kiss 
of this lovely lady lurks the dread germ of malaria — on 
the day before we arrived two of the seven white 
inhabitants went south on the tiny trading steamer 
fighting a battle against death — but ah! she is fascinat- 
ing in her wild beauty; her picture stands out with 
cameo clearness when those of far more proper ladies, 
far less dangerous ladies, are forgotten. 

We came to Maron in late afternoon, rolling across a 
wide gray sea. As though in warning against her 
charms the first thing that met our eyes was a great 
rusting hulk of a steamer piled high upon the white- 
bearded reef which guards this dangerous lady; that 
German ship was firmly embedded in the coral, and the 
foam of every sea flung a white veil over her. 

In from the wearying sea we swung through the 
narrow gateway of the reef. We did not know what 
we were going to; we had never read anything of Maron 
nor met anybody who had been there; here was virgin 
territory. And so we came in cautiously with all eyes 
on the shore — and what do you think we saw? Stand- 



A "WET" TOWN 109 

ing high upon the crest of a hill a German castle, so it 
seemed to us, such as you might find upon the banks of 
the Rhine! 

It takes a lady with dangerous lips to provide such 
surprises. 

Perhaps you are tired of references to palms, but 
Maron was a living poem of their beauty. On the main 
island, on the surrounding specks of land, nothing save 
palms; thousands upon thousands of them swayed and 
danced together, rattling their swords in the clamour of 
the gale which swept across the island for the whole 
time we were there. Here and there was an occasional 
pine, but beyond that nothing save palms, legions of 
them, so that it seemed they had occupied the whole 
landscape and driven out all the lesser plants. They 
held high carnival with the surf and wind for courtiers. 

Out in a cutter came the magistrate and three other 
Australians. They were speechless with excitement, 
for to Maron only the trading steamer comes once in 
three months and nothing else ever happens. Here, 
in the kingdom of the palm, day drifts into day and 
these three men live on in a round of beautiful 
monotony which warps and deadens. One said to me: 
"I can tell you the number of palms to be seen on the 
skyline of the island opposite. There is nothing to do 
in the evening but sit and stare at them. I have counted 
every one to keep myself from thinking." 

You may well imagine the thrill our coming meant. 

"What name belong this lap-lap (flag)? He no 
belong me!" 



no SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

That is what the puzzled natives said when they saw 
the Stars and Stripes. That flag had never been seen 
there before. 

It was Speejacks luck to arrive at that lonely outpost 
on the greatest day of the year for the four exiles — 
April 25th, the anniversary of the landing of the Aus- 
tralians at Gallipoli. Here were four Anzacs preparing 
to celebrate the day, and our ship, with its new life and 
new interest, had arrived most opportunely. There 
were great rejoicings. So we went up to the castle on 
the hill for dinner. 

Here was romance itself. Once upon a time there 
was a German Pacific millionaire named Rudolf Wahlen 
— surely his second name should have been Aladdin — 
and among his interests was this entire group and the 
palms on it. Here he built his home, and to-day the 
flag of the starry cross floats from the flag-pole and 
cheerful young Australians dwell in it. 

Never was there a greater surprise than this stone 
mansion of the world's end. Imagine a great two- 
storied house with a high tower, on every side broad 
stone verandas with pergolas, stone balustrades and 
decorations, cloaked in creeping vines. Inside were 
great rooms with French windows opening out on to 
balconies, electric light and water laid on, a tennis 
court, a photographic dark room, and a garden — a per- 
fect home, looking out across the unending magic 
of the palms to the all-encircling white reef and to the 
seas where there are no ships. 

They gave us a dinner, mostly from tins, which was 



A "WET" TOWN 111 

almost perfection, they plied us with excellent cocktails 
and other drinks — out here where there should have 
been wilderness — and A. Y. proposed the toast of 
Anzac Day while the palms and surf applauded. 
Melba (tinned) sang for us. 

There were great yarnings that night, talks of far 
fields and brave men and brave deeds told with lurid 
oaths — ^maybe you knew the "Diggers"? — a wonderful 
evening for these exiles, and a wonderful evening for us. 

On the following day we entertained aboard — as we 
did at all the other places where we received the wonder- 
ful hospitality of the Pacific — and there was more 
yarning and more oaths, and another memorable time. 

"The more we see of you the better we like you. 
Stay awhile." 

That is what they wrote in the guest book. We did, 
whether we wanted to or not. For a great gale came 
which drove the huge waves onto the reefs in fountains 
of spray, a gale which shrieked like ten thousand de- 
mons in the palms, and it was very snug by that tiny 
dock with a mooring rope made fast to pines upon the 
shore, and the wild seas outside looked very gray and 
desolate. And so we stayed and shivered, one degree 
south of the Equator. 

It was a delight to walk round the island on the 
grass-grown paths, where Herr Rudolf once drove in an 
open landau drawn by two small ponies. The gale 
yelled continuously and the palms — oh, the glorious 
palms! — clattered together above your head, coconuts 
fell with heavy thuds, and the ground underfoot was 



112 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

riddled by millions of holes into which scuttled huge 
orange crabs so numerous that at times it seemed the 
earth moved. 

Into the canals, made in an effort to drain off the 
stagnant water where the mosquitoes breed, water 
lizards darted unceasingly, quick as light, and goats 
grazed on the rank grass. Two hills and a narrow flat 
made up the island, and on it were 47,000 palms. And 
there are always the wild wind and the wide sea making 
the blood grow sluggish with the weight of the tropics, 
making it run fast again, and always white bands of 
foam and other islands each with its feathered crown. 

Iguanas fled away from you like small crocodiles, an 
occasional parrot flashed overhead, and the crabs 
marched in armies — there was no change, no variation 
in countenance of the island, but by its very regularity 
it gripped, held, and hypnotized you. 

Maron is a setting for the peculiar. 

Here, for instance, the natives had a tame shark which 
came into a few inches of water to be fed. It was the 
pet of the island boys. But the boys from the mainland 
grew jealous and one day, being in a black mood, they 
shot at the green-eyed monster which lay so peacefully 
upon the white sand, hidden beneath a shallow film of 
water. 

Then they jeered at their fellows whose pet swam 
away and was seen no more. 

For a time the islanders were disconsolate, but a wise 
man arose who pointed out that the shark had not 
deserted them. One of their people had been landed 



A "WET" TOWN 113 

from a cutter on another island. His leg was broken. 
The shark, it was evident, had only gone over there to 
look after him. 

And, though the mainlanders tried to laugh the 
theory to scorn, in their hearts they believed it, and 
victory was with those whose pet had been attacked. 

We saw sharks at Maron, but they did not seem at all 
like pets. A great monster twelve feet in length swam 
about the stem of the yacht one afternoon, and Louis, 
all excitement and eagerness, begged some beef from 
Bert. By this time the cruel fin was showing farther 
down the lagoon and Louis flung some of the beef 
overboard to act as bait. Then he took another piece 
and dangled it over the stem with a cunningly contrived 
noose in such a position that it could be tightened when- 
ever the shark came for the dainty. But he never came 
back. 

Instead, as the tempting pieces drifted down on the 
tide, we saw a sudden welter of water and half-a-dozen 
fins bore down on them. We saw the great fish tum 
over and piece after piece was snapped down by the 
hungry jaws, with much splashing of tails and fins in the 
battle for the morsels. 

Ships, as I have said, seldom come to Maron, but the 
natives say that there is a grasshopper which never 
appears except when a ship is about to put in. One of 
the Australians had put the matter to the test, and on 
each of the previous three occasions when the insect 
was seen, a ship came in the following day; the Spee- 
iackSy entirely unexpected, being the last fulfilment of 



114 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the prophecy. He had captured this little fellow, a 
neatly uniformed gentleman in green with a brown 
stripe, and intended to carry out further tests. The 
native believed in the omen implicitly. 

Day after day the gale blew and showed no sign of 
abating, so that, at last, there was nothing for it but to 
push out and battle through. But it was not merely 
on account of the voyage ahead that we were sorry to 
leave Maron — we loved the beautiful lady for herself. 

It was a bitter moment when we thrust out through 
that sheltering wall. I remember we caught three big 
fish going through the reef all within seconds of each 
other, but that did not compensate for the great green 
waves which swept up beneath us and tossed us high 
into heaven. The ship staggered and plunged beneath 
their onslaught, and rolled and tossed so that it was im- 
possible to eat in the saloon and we had to be content 
with sandwiches for meals in the wheelhouse. The 
tiny white yacht was flung hither and thither like a 
match, and sea and set were against us, so that instead 
of making eight knots our speed was only five. Great 
trees drifted by. The wind lifted solid sheets of water 
off the crests of the waves and drove them down upon 
us like hail. 

I had the two to four watch that morning, and those 
were black hours. A great star showed ahead — at least 
it showed at moments, and for the rest of the time it 
was either far above the canvas awning or blacked out 
by the lifting bow. It was never in the same place for 
a moment. It was a star with St. Vitus' dance. 



A "WET" TOWN 115 

As I clung there in misery and watched the star and 
the compass I thought of Masefield's lines : 

**A11 1 want is a tall ship and a star to steer her by!" 

I remembered a small boy who read those lines in a 
brown room and suffered, with Masefield, from "Sea 
Fever." At the moment, though years later, he had 
found a remedy. He felt like a fly crucified to the 
wheel which had suddenly grown huge. 

Thinking thus and trying to pass the weary minutes 
away, I noticed the engineer go forward and look out. 
Now it was as black as pitch up there, and it was im- 
possible to see even his figure. The bow was wrapped 
about in dark and rain, and the binnacle light striking 
up into your eyes blinded you as far as seeing anything 
ahead was concerned. 

I noticed that he hurried back rather anxiously. 
He shook the captain. 

"Cap," he cried, "come and look at the island we're 
running into!" 

You can guess the feeling of the skipper wakened by 
such a call. Out he dashed, and in a minute was back 
in the wheelhouse, calm and cool, giving a new course. 
We should have passed Matty Island hours before but 
the set had carried us many miles off. The thunder of 
the surf could be heard, and had it not been for the 
timely glance ahead of the engineer, who was supposed 
to keep a general look-out, I should have blissfully 
steered the ship ashore. 

The speed with which the captain — wakened from a 



116 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

heavy sleep, mind you — grasped the situation, kept his 
head, and set things right sticks in my mind as one of 
the many fine pieces of navigation I saw him do. There 
was no time here for talk or hesitation. A nasty run, 
that! 

Next day was as bad, and Bert was laid up with 
stomach trouble. Somebody left the medical book 
lying on the hatch. It chanced that it was open at the 
ominous word "Sea-sickness." 

"Antidote — iced champagne!" mocked the heartless 
book. 

Fancy the brutality of recommending iced cham- 
pagne on a yacht off Dutch New Guinea! 



CHAPTER VIII 

A Race from the Port-of-Dreams-for-Sale to the Orient 

And so the Speejacks came to the port where men sold 
dreams. 

Look at the map of Dutch New Guinea, and just 
within the northeastern borderline you will see Hum- 
boldt Bay. This is another harbour of wonderful 
beauty shut close about by wooded mountains, gemmed 
with wooded islands, with tiny marine villages of 
peaked brown huts dotted here and there at the base 
of those great slopes. At the top of the bay on a small 
flat nestled the little Dutch outpost of HoUandia, 
fascinating and strange. 

Here, for the first time, we found the Orient jostling 
the Pacific; Chinese rubbed shoulders with naked na- 
tives and the clickety-click of wooden slippers mingled 
with the throbbing of a drum. And here bland Chinese 
gentlemen in pyjamas had dreams for sale — dreams of 
shimmering beauty captured in the shadowy depths of 
tropic jungle. For Hollandia is a great centre for the 
bird-of -paradise trade. Along the broad street facing the 
sea rows of glistening plumes floated upon lines or were 
ranged on boxes drying in the sun. Gold and brown and 
blue, shot with a thousand gleams and shades, lit with 
the light of precious stones, here and there a foam of 
white cascading plumes, these were things to marvel at. 

117 



118 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

But, even in the warm sunshine, the beauty was dead 
and the dreams were cold. Not here the magic of the 
darting diamond in the green depths, only the empty 
brilliance. It seemed a poor trade, a nasty business. 

There is something faery about these wonder birds. 
Their elusiveness is that of dreams. We met Dutch- 
men here who had handled thousands of plumes, but 
who had never seen a bird alive. Somewhere out in the 
great valleys and the towering mountains they flitted, 
but only the natives knew where. The natives brought 
them in and that was what mattered. 

And, they said, no one had ever found a paradise 
bird's nest or seen its eggs. Learned societies had 
offered a reward for specimens, but it seemed as useless 
to try to win it as though it had been offered for a bird 
that nested on Mars. 

But there were the dead dreams for sale at £2 each! 

When we were at Hollandia, 300 of the town's 700 
inhabitants were out in the back country with hired 
shotguns in quest of the birds, for the big buyers would 
be arriving within a couple of months. One thought 
of the green wilderness of the jungle and the wounded 
sunbeams fluttering down. 

Hollandia, by night, was a fascinating place, with 
the golden oblongs of light flung from the open Chinese 
shops. Small Oriental babies came stealing in to stare 
in wonder at the strangers who sat at the smooth-worn 
bamboo tables and who seemed to find such pleasure 
in the long draughts of German lager placed before them 
by father. Very queer stores these, packed with a 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 119 

preposterous welter of trifles all jumbled together; 
plumes alongside tinned fish, strange fruits and dainties 
on top of cases of whiskey, spears and poisoned arrows 
next to domestic brooms. 

You would wonder how the traders make a living, 
for tourists never come to Hollandia, lonely outpost 
that it is chipped out of the wilderness. 

We met fat, broad-faced Dutchmen, a very different 
type of settlers from those we had seen before. 

Your Englishman, your Australian, regards the 
tropics as a prison from which he will escape presently 
and go Home. Not so these Hollanders. 

"I have not seen Europe for thirty years," said one. 
"I have forgotten it." 

That struck us as being a very general view. The 
Dutch in the East are a distinct nation, speaking Dutch, 
owning allegiance to Holland, but really as shut off from 
her as though they were independent. Of course there 
are countless exceptions to this rule, but, generally 
speaking, the fact remains that in the Dutch Indies 
there was an entirely new attitude. 

They quaffed their lager, they sipped their Holland 
gin, they slept and ate much, and they were content. 

Yet the back country to them was a far greater 
mystery, and was far wilder, than it would have been in 
English territory. 

"We go there as little as may be," said they. " It is 
a bad place. There is too much death!" 

There was one man who went on expeditions into the 
interior in quest of gold and curios and plumes. 



120 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"For me/' he explained, "I prefer to firearms a few 
plugs of dynamite. Dynamite is an unanswerable 
argument." 

This man had been far along the Dutch Sepik River — 
400 miles of headhunters, of decorated skulls, of clouds 
of malaria-laden mosquitoes. Bodies lacking heads 
floated past his canoe as it was paddled along, and 
warriors sent spears hurtling at him, until he demon- 
strated the powers of modem explosives. In his untidy 
house he had many strange things — shields embroidered 
with cockatoo feathers, skulls with pearl-shell eyes, 
arrows tipped with poison. 

As far as possible the authorities are putting down the 
native "sing-sings." You see, the dancers have an un- 
fortunate habit of becoming most excited and dashing 
out the brains of babies against the wooden poles around 
which they leap. 

In our battle across from the Hermits we had con- 
sumed much benzine, but the fact had caused us no 
misgivings since we had been told that we could obtain 
fresh supplies at Hollandia. We couldn't. There were 
only a few gallons in town, as under a Dutch law only 
very small quantities could be carried by the coastal 
steamers. 

Here was a pretty quandary. We were a thousand 
miles from Amboina, on the island of Ceram, and our 
tanks held just 2,080 gallons — our exact consumption 
for the run without allowing any margin for rough seas 
and winds, a set against us, or deviations from our 
course. There seemed to be every prospect that sup- 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 121 

plies might run short, and leave us floating, a helpless 
salvage prize, until we were picked up. 

While we were debating this, a solution steamed into 
Humboldt Bay in the form of a big Dutch coastal boat, 
which, we learned, was bound in the very direction in 
which our course lay. 

Here was a stroke of good fortune. Hastily we put 
the dinghy over and rowed across. 

We were met by the bullet-headed, very polite, but 
firm captain. 

"Yes," he said, and our hearts gave a jump, "yes, I 
can tow you 500 miles on your way — ^but it will cost 
you £500!" 

We protested that we were not salvage yet, and that 
the price was exorbitant, but he was obdurate. Adjust- 
ments might be made later at the company's office — he 
had to protect himself ! We doubted those adjustments if 
we once paid our money down so we bade him good-bye. 

Back we went to our little ship, the anchor came up 
and we headed out, giving a couple of parting hoots on 
our siren to indicate our independence. 

But we fully realized we were up against it. When 
we came in the sea had been turmoil. What if it should 
still be so? The luck held. Outside the ocean was a 
sheet of green glass. 

In the days that followed we lived in very close 
communion with the sea — with a kind and gracious and 
smiling sea. 

There were great discussions about tides and currents 
and what the engines were doing. 



122 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

In order to economize our fuel we ran on one engine 
only, giving us about six knots. The advisability of 
doing this formed the subject of endless discussion, and 
led to the constitution of "the gas watch." The watch 
sat at all hours of the day and night on the hatch above 
the engine room, and arguments raged furiously and 
many wagers were made. The consumption was meas- 
ured daily, and we watched the log with eager eyes. I 
don't think any of us got far off the course on that run. 

And always from the gas watch came argument. 

"Well, on one engine we cut our consumption in half 
and yet our speed stays at five or six knots!*' 

This from A. Y. 

"But is our consumption cut in half, and what about 
having to drag the other screw? Wouldn't it be better 
to run both slow?" 

This from "Cal." 

"Then you've got to remember that crawling like 
this we're banking on the weather staying calm." 

This from the captain. 

We wagered upon the time we would reach various 
points. The Cape of Good Hope was one of the land- 
marks. 

("It would be bad luck for a man living here if his 
letters went to the other Cape in South Africa!" Bill 
pointed out.) 

At noon it was clear in sight. Then the betting 
started. Three o'clock, four, five, eight, all had sup- 
port. But when we came upon the cape it proved to 
be a false one, and the real cape was behind it, so it 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 123 

seemed. But it wasn't. It was behind the next — and 
behind the next. Ultimately we passed it about 9 P. M. 
In this connection you must remember we were working 
on a small-scale chart, little more than an atlas map, 
and the myriad indentations of that mystery coast 
were not shown in detail. 

It was a mystery coast rising high and purple and 
plumed with clouds, and the sea about us sparkled into 
diamonds with a surface calm as that of a lake. Look- 
ing back on that run I realize how close we landsmen 
grew to the sea. Wife to the sailormen, she was but a 
mistress to us, a new discovery, a lady who would leave 
us soon. We loved her the more. And a wonderful 
education it was. On a liner you are carried willy-nilly 
from place to place and the business of getting there 
goes on above your head. We had the charts always 
before us, we had the thrill of finding landmarks, of 
seeing how a course was laid and of keeping that course. 
We watched the wind and the log with eyes which were 
directly interested. We kept that compass point just 
where it should have been. And all the time we were 
nestled so close to the sea that flying fish flopped on 
board and we seemed to be literally held in her arms. 

We were sailing from the dawn into the setting sun, 
and by night clear down the silver path of the moon, 
y/itch days and nights of dream! 

Sunrises which bathed all the world in pink, sunsets 
staining the west with fire against which far islands 
stood with their trees in silhouette so that you thought 
of the teeth of combs; moon-mad nights when nobody 



124 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

slept for the wonder of the heart of a pearl in which v/e 
sailed. Watches were a pleasure, a delight, bringing 
dreamings of good times past and to come, and of good 
friends far away. As the minutes passed you hummed 
song after song, idly, low, calling back memories. 

Our little world was completely shut off. That other 
world outside seemed to be on another planet. We 
had had no news since we left Rabaul, and we had al- 
most forgotten it existed. Thrones might be tottering, 
nations might be caught up in flames, but we were in 
blissful ignorance. 

To save fuel the wireless was shut down, and even 
fans and lights in the cabins were switched off. When 
the sun died we were well content with moonlight. 

There was no monotony in those days, for beauty was 
always all about us, and we had the interest of our race 
with the friendly ocean. We read the few books we had 
on board and started on the encyclopaedia, we brought 
up our clothes and hung them in the sun until the ship 
looked like a floating old clothes shop — this was an 
important measure in the never-ceasing battle which 
must be waged against mildew at sea in the tropics — 
and we talked unendingly. 

Also we played cards and dice. 

"Roll you bones!'' you would hear go up from a little 
group clustered on their hands and knees on deck. 

And in the evening all hands would assemble in the 
tiny saloon and a game of poker or red dog would start. 

To begin with, the betting was very moderate, but 
gradually the stakes grew. A vast currency of paper 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 125 

grew up — a currency of chits. Thus at the end of a 
night's play settling would be something like this: 

"Well, Fm down £6. I've got a chit here from Jay 
for £2 and one from Cal for £1. Til give you those 
and my own chit for the balance." 

The craze, which had really developed in the Tro- 
briands, lasted imtil we reached Java. And always, 
apparently on the principle of the rich getting richer and 
the poor poorer, "A. Y." won. His luck was phenome- 
nal, and in fact, the only time we beat him was when he 
bet all comers that Borneo was larger than New Guinea! 

We went through Pitt Passage, a narrow road of 
water between the high wooded islands of Batanta and 
Salawatti, with villages dotted here and there, the sea 
like glass and the clouds weaving fantasies upon the 
hills. Here for the first time since leaving Australia 
we were passed by a ship in daylight. She was the 
slim and graceful Tydeman, a surveying ship of the 
Dutch Indies Navy, and in that far seaway the flags 
of the two nations dipped to each other. 

Later, when we met the commander in Amboina, he 
told us that he could have replenished our stock of 
gasoline, and he expressed surprise at our coming suc- 
cessfully along that island-dotted and reef -strewn coast, 
much of which was uncharted, and where there was 
neither light nor beacon but many reefs and rocks. 
He thought it a wonderful feat, but we had accepted it 
quite as a matter of course. 

That evening we left the dark islands behind. 

We saw New Guinea black against the afterglow for 



126 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the last time, and we were not sorry. Ahead lay the 
Orient and places famous in history and art. To tell 
the truth we looked forward to the change. We had 
had enough of the primitive, of the naked savages, 
headhunters, and cannibals. Fittingly enough, this 
last evening was set in a fantastic sea. The water was 
a burnished mirror for the flushed sky, great porpoises 
came charging down to us apparently out of the jaws of 
the drowning sun and flashed and gleamed within 
inches of our bow; against the skyline huge fish were 
leaping into the air and falling with silver splashes 
about some dark shape — killers attacking a whale, we 
believed; flying fish were everywhere, and now and then 
bonito sprang shimmering into the air; gulls floated 
by on drifting flotsam. All the citizens of these seldom- 
ploughed waters seemed to be holding high holiday, and 
to have taken us into their freemasonry. It was uncanny. 

We were nearing our destination now, but though we 
had enjoyed our race, the days and nights of watch 
tramping on the heels of watch had been something of a 
strain. 

Witness two queer happenings. 

Jay, called to take his wheel, came into the deckhouse, 
looked wisely at the thermometer, went to the rail and 
gave a searching glance at the moon, and disappeared. 
Rogers waited patiently to be relieved, and eventually 
sent the engineer in quest of the delinquent, for every 
moment beyond the regular two hours seemed like an 
additional hour. 

The culprit was found sound asleep astern. He had 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 127 

gone back to bed, having forgotten all about his call. 

I reversed the procedure. 

Suddenly I thought I had been called to take my 
watch. I got up and went to the wheelhouse, where 
the captain was on watch. Very solemnly I took the 
wheel from his hands. 

"Right-o, Cap!" I grunted. 

He stood aside in astonishment, and then, seeing I 
slept, he allowed me to waken gradually. Very sheep- 
ishly I went back to my blanket. I had taken my 
watch six hours before! 

There was a strange glamour about this changing of 
watches at night. You would be feeling a little weary 
and thirsty and very ready to sleep. The bell would 
chime and the engineer on watch would call the relief — 
though often only after you had wakened him first with 
a shout from the wheelhouse door — a pyjama-clad 
figure would appear on silent bare feet at your side, 
you would whisper the course and add that it was a fine 
night, and then, if you were off at midnight or four 
o'clock, you would write up the log. 

Among other items which had to be mentioned was 
the direction of the wind, and in this way I won undying 
fame, a fame which was spread at every port whenever 
a crowd gathered. I had written down most of the 
information and was about to go to bed. 

"Say, what about the wind?'' reminded Cap. 

In a fatal moment of thoughtlessness I picked up the 
electric torch and, switching it on, stepped out to see 
from which direction came the breeze. 



128 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"Fancy having to run a ship with sailors who take a 
torch to look for the wind," said the skipper. He never 
forgot it. 

Like most sailors, he had a great idea that custom 
was a sacred thing. Now, taking two-hour watches, 
the dog watches which altered the routine should have 
come between 4 and 6 in the afternoon. When your 
turn for a "dog'* came round, it meant that you only 
had to stand one hour. A full watch in the sunlight 
is only a trifle, and we decided that the "dogs" would 
be more appreciated if they came between midnight 
and 2 a. m. 

"But you simply can't have a dog watch at that 
time!" protested the captain. 

We asked what was to prevent us, and he replied 
that it never had been at any time except between 4 
and 8 p. m. It wouldn't be a dog watch at any other 
time! But we out- voted him, and had our way. It 
didn't matter if it was a "cat watch," we said, so long 
as there was a chance of only having to stand one hour 
on some rough night. 

Dawn of the eighth day saw all our care and calcula- 
tions rewarded, for we reached Amboina with a margin 
of about 100 gallons. Without our good ally, the sea, 
we should have been bobbing about as helpless as a cork 
on the face of the waters. Given a strong set against 
u« — we had had a slight one — or heavy head-seas, we 
would have run out of fuel without any doubt. 

Still the luck had held. 

Our thousand-mile run had brought us into a new 




§ 

o 



+-> 

o 

<: 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 129 

hemisphere, where all was noise and bustle, where there 
were many lights, and all the crowded Ufe of the East. 
It was very different from the lonely, dark islands from 
which we had come. 

We sat in the little cafe of Njio Tjoen Sien — that 
not very respectable little cafe which is kept by wise 
and voluble Chinamen for the convenience of men who 
come in from the sea in ships. 

"In Ambon, sir," said Njio, "we are very happy. 
There is enough for all. No man here needs pearl or 
diamond, only a few cents a day for rice and a cloth 
to cover him. That, sir, is the way to happiness — ^to 
need but Uttle and have it. My people, sir, have lived 
here for 400 years. Here is a marriage certificate 200 
years old which shows that I speak true. They were 
wise people, sir." 

Outside the street was aflame with colour; Malays 
in bright sarongs and neat jackets; Arabs with their 
gold-topped round white hats; Ambonese, brown and 
small, the women with their black hair smooth and 
twisted into a knot; bearded Indians; pyjama-clad 
Chinese on bicycles, fat Dutch women; tiny carts drawn 
by tiny ponies; bullock wagons — all these flowed by in 
a river. 

Over all hung that queer smell of the East with 
which we were to become so familiar in the weeks that 
followed. I have tried to analyze it and I believe it 
to have for its basis the aroma of drying fish flavoured 
with a tang of smoke, and blended with the distinctive 
smell of coloured peoples. 



ISe SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

It was all new, this world to which we had come, 
even to the fact that it possessed a history. 

There is an old fort at Amboina, with great walls three 
feet thick and twenty feet high in which are written 
in green metal letters the names of the seven leading 
towns of Holland and the names of seven popular 
heroes of the year 1600. One hundred years before that 
the Portuguese held Amboina — you can see the ruins of 
their fort, too — but the Dutch captured the island 
along with their other possessions in the East, and the 
Dutch have held them ever since with the exception of 
a brief period at the time of the Napoleonic wars when 
Britain seized them, only to return them later. 

The old fort is dismantled now, and inside are spread- 
ing lawns. The green uniformed native troops are 
quartered in it. 

It was strange, too, to see real homes again. The 
Dutch live well in the Indies. Along the tree-lined 
roads of Amboina they have built for themselves fine 
white stone homes, cool and stately. The verandas 
are decorated with ferns and old china and are an im- 
portant part of the house, where the family spends 
much of its time. 

They do not worry about appearances, but believe 
in comfort. You can see stout Dutch women in their 
dressing gowns on these verandas at any hour of the 
day, and in the afternoon, after their siesta, their plump 
husbands join them, barefooted and wearing pyjamas. 

These Dutch towns die from lunch until 4 o'clock. 
Everybody sleeps except in the native quarter. At four 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 131 

you rise and bathe and then go driving or visiting with 
your wife and your troop of white-skinned, flaxen-haired 
children. Then you go to the cool white societeit — or 
clubs. These are great institutions, where all the social 
life centres. While the ladies play and gossip in an 
inner room the men sit about at the scores of little tables 
and drink long and well of beer and gin. These clubs 
are cool and well built, and here, too, are held dances 
and concerts on certain nights. 

To be fashionable you must not dine until nine, or, 
better still, ten. 

The Dutch are great eaters, but to us their meals 
were strange. Breakfast, served from 6 A. M. onward, 
is a meal of oddments, trifles of sausage, snacks of cold 
meat, little spiced affairs. At midday you get riz tafel, 
or rice table, a novel meal. The boys set a soup plate 
before you with two smaller plates to catch the over- 
flow. On this you pile a great mass of rice. At least 
a dozen boys then charge down upon you bearing trays 
full of dishes. There are little pieces of stewed meat, 
curry, salted and smoked fish, boiled fowl, spices and 
flavourings and chutneys out of number. All this is 
mixed together in a hopeless mush, and eaten with a 
pleasant bread made from prawns and batter. 
^ If you are Dutch you use a spoon and fork, and shovel 
the strange fare in as though you had not a moment to 
live. 

It may not sound attractive, but if you carefully 
avoid all spices coloured red — these being hotter than 
live coals — it is rather a fascinating meal, particularly 



132 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

until the novelty wears off. Also, having eaten of it, 
you understand why the Dutch sleep in the afternoon. 

After you have experienced riz tafel the evening meal 
is quite ordinary, except that, as you wait until 10 
o'clock for it, you bring to its consumption a very 
healthy appetite. 

All the strange smells in the world are gathered to- 
gether in the native bazaar at Amboina, which is like 
something from the Arabian Nights when the dark is 
over the town and its rows of small stalls are lit by the 
twinkling eyes of many little naphtha flares. Up and 
down, inspecting the wares, swims that strange sea of 
people: a barber cuts hair in the midst of the throng, 
vendors of rice sit with diminutive packets done up in 
green leaves before them, and the stock of each trader 
is usually most meagre. He will have a few handfuls 
of peanuts or two small fish, or a single bunch of bana- 
nas, and he will sit patiently all day to dispose of these 
wares. Others sell strange sirups, brilliant-hued, sticky 
soft drinks, which seem to be very popular, and in the 
larger stalls the traders squat hour upon hour like sleepy 
spiders. Nobody ever seems to disturb them. 

Truly, man earns his bread in the East with very 
little. You wonder how it is done, until you recall 
the words of Njio, that wise Chinaman who is not 
known by the best people. 

Even to us strangers the goods were sold very 
cheaply. I have a memory of Jay buying a handful of 
peanuts and paying for them with a small silver coin, 
of the value of about threepence. For this he was 



A RACE TO THE ORIENT 133 

offered the entire stock and a great mass of small 
coppers which would have filled his trouser pocket. 

The hillsides about Amboina are dotted with strange 
horseshoe-shaped structures in concrete, which give 
the appearance of a number of tiny coliseums. These 
are Chinese graves, and Njio explained their signifi- 
cance. 

"It is, sir, that when the Manchus came they re- 
garded the Chinese as no better than horses, sir," 
quoth he. "For this reason, sir, did the Emperor de- 
cree that we should sleep our last, sir, beneath a horse- 
shoe, with the symbols of the saddle and the whip show- 
ing upon it.'' 

New curios were added to our collection here. The 
yacht was surrounded by canoes, the occupants of 
which sold sweet-smelling boxes and model canoes made 
from cloves. They struck us as delightful Imickknacks, 
but our enthusiasm waned when we found that within 
a few weeks the cloves dried and crumbled into an 
indistinguishable mass. 

Alas! we were too far away then to- protest, a point 
which the vendors, no doubt, had not overlooked. 

Many laundrymen fiocked out to us, also, to support 
their claims, unfurling huge sheaves of testimonials 
dating back twenty years. 

They were pasted together and floated out in a veri- 
table banner of praise. 

The bearers could have had little knowledge of the 
meaning of some of these letters. 

"This man has done in my washing more completely 



134 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

than any fiend I have ever known/' said one. " I sent 
him shirts and he gave me back cotton fishing nets. I 
sent him trousers and he gave me back kilts. May his 
god forgive him — I never shall.'' 

We nodded our appreciation of this splendid recom- 
mendation, and the Malay flashed his teeth in a broad 
smile of satisfaction. 

But he cannot understand to this day why he didn't 
get our laundry. 

Before we sailed we went with Njio to the gaudy 
Chinese temple. There were three goddesses there. 
Our host, perhaps inspired by a not entirely peaceful 
conscience, burnt his joss-stick on the shrine of the god- 
dess of Forgiveness; but we selected for our tribute the 
lady who presided over the sea. 

Her favour was very necessary to us. 



CHAPTER IX 

The Sultan Who Diedy and Hurrying Waters 

If you are looking for light and romantic reading, 
"Sailing Directions*' is a book — or rather a library — 
which has but slight charm for you. If, however, you 
are finding your way round the world you will appre- 
ciate those wonderful volumes at their true worth. 
They make the seaways clear as a printed page. They 
transform the watery globe into a book which he who 
runs may read. 

No corner is unknown to them. Here is a light and 
there a hill with three trees on the crest which will bear 
so-and-so on such a point as you turn in at the entrance; 
out in mid-ocean you will come upon three rocks just 
visible at low tide; the reef from the cliffy headland ex- 
tends into the sea for a distance of one mile, but close 
alongside it there is a depth of twelve fathoms. 

Uncanny books! 

Having studied them you feel that you have visited 
a palmist who has read what to-morrow holds, but there 
is always the difference that the prophecy of Madame 
Sailing Directions is fulfilled. But she is not a romantic 
lady. She does not talk of sunsets and the colour and 
the fascination that the future holds. She brushes such 
trifles away and reveals things that really matter. If 
she fails to mention that a harbour is beautiful she tells 

135 



136 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

how to use it, and if she does not comment on the 
glamour that hangs over a town she informs you that 
there is good water here and fresh meat may be had. 

Here is a treasure chart of the practical. 

Occasionally, however, woman-like, she indulges in a 
touch of romance, and then only it seems she is liable 
to be at fault. 

"Bouton — Some miles from the town in an old fort 
lives a native Sultan." 

Now that, I claim, is not of any value to navigators; 
it is a pure lapse into sentiment. Note what follows! 

The outburst in those prosaic pages naturally at- 
tracted our attention. We decided that a real sultan 
was too good to miss, and that a journey of several hun- 
dred miles would be well repaid by a ghmpse of him 
and a chat with his harem. 

If, as we did, you insist upon calling him the "Sultan 
of Button," you can imagine all kinds of whimsical 
things about him. 

On the third day out we came into another of those 
delightful shut-in passages down which we ran all day, 
sliding, it seemed, across a surface of polished glass. 
On either hand were smooth green islands, to starboard 
the spicy shores of Celebes, the very name of which is 
romance. The air was sweet with land breezes laden 
with the breath of the spice isles. We had so many 
days of beautiful cruising that it is impossible to select 
one as the best — but that day was a front-ranker. 

The channel was never more than ten and sometimes 
only three miles in width. As the afternoon waned we 




Jay Ingraham and Jack Lewis, of the Speejacks expedition, get 
quotations on the parrot market at Bouton. 







(X) 

u 

CO 



O 

C/3 
-t-> 

o 



8 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 137 

found the shores closing in on us on either side — great 
high red cliffs with neat squares and oblongs of cultiva- 
tion hewn out of the tropical luxuriance on their higher 
slopes. 

It was still and silent, hushed and oppressive. The 
banks seemed to be rushing in to squeeze us to match- 
wood in their strong arms. The water slid swiftly like 
a silver snake. It gained impetus and hurried us along 
willy-nilly. Great whirlpools and eddies appeared on 
its glassy face, and always the cliffs closed in. 

The dark was striding down. 

Swifter, swifter ran that silver, hurrying water, 
sweeping us along hke the palm fronds and jetsam which 
it carried. 

Rogers, at the wheel, spun those polished spokes till 
his arms ached. 

"This is worse than a head sea!" he said, and per- 
spiration beaded his forehead, though he wore only a 
cotton singlet and khaki shorts. 

Despite all his efforts the boat's head swung this way 
and that, driven by the laughing waters. 

Strange canoes put out from bamboo landing stages 
at the foot of the cliffs. Apparently their object was 
to investigate this white visitor, but the water jested 
with them also. It picked them up and swept them 
along, like disabled water beetles. 

The cliffs could not have been a quarter of a mile 
apart now. They rose like walls against the flushing 
heavens, they flung indigo shadows upon the silver lane. 
You could guess at stars in the pale heavens. There 



138 SEA-TRACKS OP THE SPEEJACKS 

were anxious studyings of the chart. Not much far- 
ther, surely! 

The air was so heavy and silent that we felt strangely 
furtive, we spoke in secret, it was as though we were 
running with mad, silent feet into some forbidden 
temple. 

"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the whispering water. 

And then, like a bolt from a catapult, we were shot 
out of that silver-and-indigo tunnel into a great calm, 
silver basin. Against the last pink of the sunset Bouton 
on a high bank lit its lamps. A tall-sterned clumsy 
junk with a red eye on its bow stood mirrored in the 
darkening silver. Palms waved a gentle greeting 
against the now pearly sky. 

The anchor broke that glassy sheet into a thousand 
ripples. The hills flung back the hoarse growl of the 
chain as it slid down into the depths, a child in a drifting 
canoe raised a plaintive Malayan song, high and quav- 
ering, three notes repeated over and over with a varying 
inflection, the song of a lonely bird. Night flooded 
down, filling that pool with its dark wine. 

Since we had become accustomed to beauty and in- 
ured to wonder we went below to eat pork and beans, 
and after that to take one another's paper money in a 
game of red dog. 

But although we had been in wilder and less known 
places, I had never experienced so keenly the sense of 
being shut-off, of having drowned the great world of 
noise and men in a thousand miles of sea, of having 
come to the edge of the world. 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 139 

Big fish sprang high out of the velvet water and 
crashed down again; from the shore came that monoto- 
nous song, now high now low. The junk, seen dimly, 
was a Chinese dragon looking with lustful eyes upon the 
graceful ghostly shape of our little sea bird. A fishing 
canoe crept by with a great burst of golden flame on 
its stem, and bronze statues come to life to paddle it. 
High above in the starry dome a bird keened. The air 
touched your skin with a woman's hand. 

Even when you slept, dreams as though bred by 
opium marched in splendid array. There were dear 
faces and dear voices and dear arms. 

Ah, night at Bouton, you crystallized the witchcraft 
of our tropic cruisings! 

With the sun up, we went, arrayed in our whitest 
suits, to call upon the Sultan of this fairy kingdom. 
Some of us carried canes, which will give you an idea 
of the importance of the occasion. We sat down gin- 
gerly in the dinghy and hoped that the seats would not 
dirty us. 

Bouton groups itself about one long, clean street 
running parallel with the water. It was so spotless that 
witches might only have ceased labouring on it with 
their brooms when the dawn came. Palms arched 
above it, palms and a blue sky. 

A perfectly preposterous little soldier, like a grass- 
hopper, met us on the dock. We told him that we 
wanted to see the resident. 

"I speak no English!'* he said, with a perfect pronun- 
ciation, but he seemed to understand. He led us down 



140 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the long street to a huge Dutch officer in spotless uni- 
form. The commandant was surrounded by impassive 
Chinese. He looked worried. He had cause to be. 
His morning's work consisted of trying to discover from 
these polite but evasive gentlemen how much they 
should pay in income tax. After last night, a tax col- 
lector — ^it was wrong, all wrong! 

Further disillusionment was to follow. 

"We particularly want to see the Sultan/' explained 
Gowen. 

The commandant smiled, slowly. 

" You have come to the wrong place," said he. "The 
Sultan died two years ago, and his son has not been 
crowned yet." 

Madame SaiUng Directions in her moment of romance 
had erred. 

But there was worse to follow. 

"And even when he is he will not be allowed to dwell 
in the old fort on the hill. Sultans cause trouble when 
they live in old forts. We will give him a villa here in 
the town where we can keep our eye upon him." 

Right enough as part of the Dutch system of main- 
taining puppet rulers to handle the natives, and giv- 
ing them no real power — but a Sultan in a villa was 
an absurdity. The commandant was awfully polite 
and obliging, but we looked upon him with darkling 
eyes. 

However, he placed the preposterous soldier at our 
disposal to take us to the fort, and we walked down the 
long street, through the busy market place, and down 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 141 

to a river. Here were jumbled together junks and proas 
and canoes in a bewildering array — the craziest delirium 
ships that ever sailed the seas, but, we were informed, 
as safe sea boats as any. They were low at the bow, 
high at the stern, with great tripod masts flapping 
matting sails and square sweeps astern to steer by. 

We crossed the stream in an outrigger ferry, the other 
passengers being a coolie hidden beneath a hat like a 
pagoda, and a high-caste Malay with a kris thrust 
through his belt at the back, its handle inlaid with 
beaten gold. A small boy splashed in mid-stream sail- 
ing a perfect model of the insane junk of his fathers. 

We climbed up a closely settled hillside, where the 
houses were built of bamboo and the fences were of 
stones lashed with cane and where children ran scream- 
ing from the strangers and women hid their faces. A 
hot climb! 

But we were rewarded when we came to that black 
old fort on the hilltop. Built by the Portuguese in 
the days of their glory, to-day it is a great, crumbling 
structure of stones stained by time. Here the walls 
are twenty feet high, and there they have sunk down 
into grass-covered mounds. The jungle is stretching 
out its arms to take that old stronghold back to its 
bosom again. Great green hands are plucking at the 
highest walls, thrusting between the stones with power- 
ful, tender fingers and wrenching them apart. The 
black muzzle-loaders are being hidden under a green 
shroud, though in places they still stare out darkly 
over the shining silver of the straits of Bouton which 



142 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

once they commanded. Grass sprouts in their touch- 
holes. Birds nest in their muzzles. Everything is 
crumbling. 

It was queer to think, sitting there and quaffing 
cool coconut milk, of the days when these battlements 
were manned by swarthy troops of a great Empire, 
now crumbled away like these walls. All about on the 
green hillside and the plains below us the native life 
went on as it had in the beginning. There was little 
change. The Portuguese, the English, the Dutch, all 
these had ruled Bouton, but they had left little trace. 
Bouton remained itself. 

And yet not quite! 

The fact was brought home to us when we visited the 
palace of the dead Sultan set in that dead fort. It was 
a great stone bam of a place, built in one huge room, 
with living quarters set beneath the roof in two stories 
of bamboo. It was dusty and empty, save for a great 
earthenware jar, which might have been used by the 
Forty Thieves, and a rough wooden throne. 

In the dim light of that forsaken palace pattered the 
ghostly feet of little sloe-eyed dancing girls, dust danc- 
ing amid the dust, and on that dim throne sat the dim 
shadow of that bold-eyed old Sultan stroking thought- 
fully at his chin as he looked upon them. Lizards ran 
about the walls in scores, and a bat, disturbed by our 
entrance, blundered about. Only that, and the pitter- 
pat of the lost little brown feet, dust dancing in the 
dust. 

And outside, goats nibbled at the grass sprouting in 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 143 

the cracks on the steps leading to the palace of his late 
Highness, the Sultan of Bouton. 

We went down that long hill again a little saddened. 
Women washing clothes in a golden river wrapped their 
sarongs about them, and stood framed in the green of 
the jungle, their heads averted from the intruders who 
had come to Bouton. So, it may be, they stood in 
the old days when the Portuguese came in their high- 
stemed, tiny craft. 

That evening the commandant called upon us, mag- 
nificent in a military cape and his high, peaked cap — 
so magnificent that seeing him approaching we fled be- 
low to pull on shoes and socks. He ruled over 300,000 
people, and as he talked you could not but be struck 
with the thoroughness of Dutch methods in the Indies. 

Every native is called upon to give twelve days' 
labour to the Government and thirty to his village in a 
year, and to this was due the fine condition of the 
roads, the cleanliness and the generally pleasing as- 
pects of the place. In addition to this the district pays 
180,000 guilders a year in taxes, roughly £15,000. 
All this money is spent in the Indies. He was suave 
and peaceful and placid, this commandant in charge 
of a kingdom. 

In Bouton there are small naked boys who for a few 
guilders will sell you parrokets or cockatoos. They 
walk about the streets carrying the birds on neat perches 
and they make a rare picture, their captives being often 
nearly as high as themselves. 

It had always been a rule that pets were not allowed 



144 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

on the yacht, though cockroaches were perforce an 
exception. However, when Rogers, Ingraham, and 
Jack arrived on board with three quaint httle parrokets 
everybody was so delighted that they were allowed to 
remain. 

How we fussed over those birds! They were nearly 
fed to death, but there was something in their bearing 
which suggested that ominous events hung cloudlike 
about their heads. They pecked at us playfully, but 
their eyes looked sad; they tore at the mangostines and 
other fruit we offered them, but their claws trembled 
the while. 

"We'll look fine sailing into New York with these," 
said somebody. 

But I smiled sadly and knew otherwise. Fate had 
laid its hand upon those feathered jewels. Their days 
might be gay — but they were numbered! 

However, we had arrived two years too late for the 
Sultan and so we slipped on down the straits and out 
to the open sea again. 

Dawn played a trick upon me on the following day. 
I was at the wheel when the first gray streak appeared 
in the east. The light grew stronger, and sea and sky 
were tinted a soft olive tone. By some strange whimsy 
of the light it seemed that the yacht was sailing straight 
along the crest of a ridge of water. I distinctly saw the 
slopes falling smoothly away into deep valleys on either 
side, and here we were balancing perilously on the top. 
I rubbed my eyes, but never have I seen anything more 
real than this effect of refraction. 



t 




THE SULTAN WHO DIED 145 

Then, looking ahead, I saw islands, a whole group of 
them. There were trees upon them, and high clifTs. 
They loomed olive and clear. 

, Remembering that other night, I turned to call the 
captain. Before doing so I looked ahead again. The 
islands had moved. They were dim and distant. I 
looked about. The light had waxed and we sailed upon 
a flat and normal sea. Again ahead, and there in the 
pearly light, were great fleecy islands — of clouds. The 
illusion was slain by the sword of day. 
. That night we ran through Salayer Straits with Saron- 
tang on one hand and Celebes on the other, with only 
a mile and a half of racing water between. 
I We were doing our normal speed of eight knots when 
Jay at the wheel suddenly felt something give the ship 
a tug. We were in the grip of mad rushing water again. 
Far ahead showed the winking eye of a lighthouse — 
the first we had seen in months. Suddenly it vanished, 
and a noise came down to us as of an army of mad 
drummers. In a moment we had nm into a silver wall, 
a solid sheet of rain. 

Words fail to give an impression of the density of that 
downpour. It seemed that the yacht staggered when 
it hit her, as though a great hand had fallen upon the 
awning. In a moment we were transformed into an 
open submarine, rushing through a solid fresh- water sea. 
It flooded in on the decks, it beat upon the glass of the 
wheelhouse, it nearly drowned the sleepers on the 
hatches before they could scamper for shelter. 

The awning stood the strain, but the water poured 



146 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

in in sheets on either side. You couldn't see the pole 
on the bow. Standing at the rail, soaked to the skin 
in a second, you couldn't see two yards. 

Nobody envied the captain at that moment, but he 
was cool and cheerful — this man whom trifles roused 
to rage. 

And all this time, you must remember, we were being 
hurried along at a breakneck speed by the unseen sea 
and flogged by the whips of the rain. 

It was a physical impossibility to gauge our position. 
The only thing to do was to stick to the course and 
hope for the best. We were making fifteen knots by 
this time, a helpless straw in a great wet hand. Sud- 
denly, faint and silver through the silver curtain, the 
lighthouse swam up ahead of the port bow. Only 
then did we fully realize how fast we were travelling. 
For in a breath it was abeam, glaring down upon us 
like a moon, its rays all diffused and softened by the 
mask of the rain. It seemed we had no sooner seen 
it than it was astern, faint for a second, swallowed by 
the night. It was as though some huge one-eyed 
monster with the speed of the wind had winged by us, 
glared, sped on. 

Tension gave place to elation; we were safely through, 
and though the water still hurried us on, clear seas lay 
ahead. But it had been a narrow margin in that 
channel which we should never see, through which we 
had run like blind men pursued by fear. 

When somebody thought of the parrots I felt that 
the hand of fate had written they should be drowned 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 147 

in rain water. It was not so. They were still alive 
though sadly bedraggled and despondent. But the 
reprieve had been brief. 

On the morrow we decided that Bill should be cine- 
matographed while feeding them. He took up an 
artistic pose on the rail and turned to listen to his in- 
structions. One of the birds gave his finger a sharp nip 
and he hit at them playfully. Overboard went parro- 
kets and the perch to which they were chained by 
rings. They bobbed swiftly astern — a living bouquet 
of colour on the green sea. One broke loose in some 
manner and came fluttering slowly back. We gave it 
a cheer as it perched in the rigging. But the other 
twain swirled away down our foaming wake, and all 
we could do was wonder whether it would be a shark or 
a king fish that would have parrot for breakfast. 

The survivor, watching us with eyes of hate, refused 
to be tempted down, but sat high up in the rigging and 
fled the ship as a thing accursed as soon as we docked 
at Makassar. 

As I said, it was written! 

We came to the capital of the island of Celebes across 
a sea dotted all over with the brown sails of junks. The 
size of this native fleet of commerce was remarkable. 
Every sea picture which we saw for weeks had one or 
more brown sails in it. They flitted about like brown 
moths, and by night they were the terror of our lives, 
as it was an exception to find one carrying a light. 
Our fears were — ^but that comes later. In these tiny 
junks the copper-skinned folk make wonderful journeys, 



148 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

often going away to China, Java, New Guinea, and the 
Phihppines. Usually they lack a compass, and the 
craft always appear to be on the point of falling in 
pieces. 

Considering these adventurers we felt humbled. 

In our journey through the Indies we passed gradu- 
ally from stage to stage, from the outpost of Hollandia 
to Batavia, the capital, by nicely graded steps. All the 
posts had much in common, but each was larger than 
the last. Makassar, then, was Amboina upon a larger 
scale. It had the same marble clubs, but larger; the 
same bazaar and native quarter, but larger; the same 
white stone villas, but larger. So, indeed, it was right 
through the Indies. 

We were struck by the difference between the Dutch 
attitude to the half-caste and ours. All through the 
Indies the touch of coloured blood is accepted as a 
matter of course. The highest official of all has a strain 
of colour in him, and here in Makassar the president 
of a leading club had a native mother. We had to 
grow accustomed, also, to the fact that it was the 
Orientals who held most of the wealth. The richest 
man in Makassar was a Malay who was worth £600,000 
and who lived quite simply in native fashion though he 
owned a fine home. The greatest land holder was a 
Chinese whose father had come to Celebes as a coolie. 

The Dutch content themselves with the role of mer- 
chants, importers, and exporters. The Chinese are the 
middlemen and the gamblers. The natives are the 
producers. 





B^^"4MfiM^Hi 


p 'i .1 ' 






^?5 











A native village in Bali, Java. "The villages are hemmed about 
by old gray mud walls, and you find inside a strange jumble of huts 
and babies and stooks of green or golden rice, and fowls and dogs 
and pigs." 



I 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 149 

We were entertained in the house of Go Tiong Hoat, 
No. 1 Chinese Inspector with the Standard Oil Com- 
pany. 

Mr. Go was a fine type, almost military in the spot- 
less neatness of his white suit, living in a beautiful 
house of blue and white with a shy Chinese wife of high 
caste who blushed and fled before our Western compli- 
ments. He spoke eight languages but, as he explained 
modestly, that was not so very remarkable when you 
remember that there are forty dialects on Celebes alone, 
and in his native China were eighty entirely different 
spoken languages, though all had the same written 
word. 

In the East, Chinese are regarded with the greatest 
favour by all classes of the community. They are al- 
ways described as industrious and law-abiding citizens, 
and among the better class their word is their bond. 

Thirty miles out from Makassar, along a road running 
between vivid green rice fields where great flat-homed 
buffalo feed in the care of brown babies, is Bantemoe- 
rang, a weird beauty spot. Once, scientists assert, 
this was the sea's bed and it became dry land compara- 
tively recently. That is not hard to believe, for the 
place gives the strangest impression. You feel like 
ocean creatures set in a model. It is a place of high 
cliffs rising in sheer walls about narrow gulches, and 
here in the quiet of the dusk we found a great waterfall 
shouting in a breathless hollow. 

The ride home was even more memorable. 

Dark came thick and impenetrable and with it sheets 



150 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

of rain. At this moment it transpired that the native 
chauffeur had imdertaken the drive with his lamps out 
of order. He had known that he would be without 
lights, but, with the strange warped mind of the Malay, 
had not dared to mention the fact. 

In Celebes the roads are narrow, thronged with 
traffic, and quite unlighted. We crawled along and 
the rain poured down on us through the hood of the 
car, which, far from serving as any protection, was 
merely a scoop which gathered the water together, and 
shot it in solid volumes over us. Trees, buffaloes, carts, 
and natives appeared suddenly before us, mere shadows 
in the pitch black, and on either side of the road as we 
strove to avoid these obstructions were deep ditches. 

And the rain poured down. 

Of a sudden, imder the long strain, the driver's nerve 
gave way, and he started to blunder hopelessly about 
the narrow road. Our host had to take the wheel, and 
on we went through the darkness, passing open native 
houses where in the bright glimmer of fires the bronze 
people sat in groups gossiping together. 

We were glad to reach the ferry of the Talor River and 
know that we were nearly home. This ferry is a fasci- 
nating thing. The fiat-bottomed punt is worked across 
by nimble-toed natives walking upon a great chain, 
and here in the daylight each load is a study in colour. 

On this sheet of water flanked by mangroves there is 
good crocodile shooting. This is a strange business. 
You push out across the gloom-wrapped mystery of 
the oily water in a tiny outrigger canoe. When a suit- 



THE SULTAN WHO DIED 151 

able position is reached a torch is lit and the great burst 
of flame sputters and blazes in the heavy air. The still 
water is suddenly broken like a pane of glass and with 
wide-open mouth and gleaming teeth a great crocodile, 
say ten feet in length, comes rushing toward the glare. 

"Wah-wah!'* he grunts, on a dreadful deep note, 
which is almost a shout. 

Rifles bark and he stops suddenly, turns over once 
or twice, and sinks, while the white-eyed natives chatter 
their relief. 

We attended a dance at the societeit, and though it 
was the social event of the week, it served merely to 
show how solemnly the Dutch take their pleasures. The 
large serious men rotated solemnly with their own large 
serious wives while a very serious orchestra made fu- 
nereal music. 

"It is always thus,*' said our British and American 
hosts. "They are the stoHdest people in the world 
when they make merry. Only once have we seen 
them show any feeling, and then the whole town was 
shocked." 

It seems that there came to Makassar a dashing 
Blue Devil — an officer of the French Foreign Legion. 
His ways were the ways of Paris and his steps were the 
steps of Paris. There was nothing stolid about either 
his ways or his steps. There was only one attractive 
girl in the room, the wife of the then commandant. 
He secured an introduction and danced with her. 

The good folk of Makassar opened their eyes at those 
steps which their sister followed with such ease. It was 



152 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

a dreadful display, they felt, though the British and 
Americans avowed it was the only dancing worthy of 
the name they had ever seen in Celebes. 

For a while the husband watched in blank astonish- 
ment, but presently his stolidity went to pieces. He 
could stand it no longer. 

He rushed out and seized the couple by the arm. 

"Off the floor, shameless ones," he shouted with a 
great Dutch oath. 

And stolid heads nodded and plump hands were 
folded upon plump laps in entire support of the pro- 
test. 

But our friends loved the Blue Devil and bought him 
many drinks. 




Water-carriers of Bali. *'The Balinese are a beautiful and 
artistic race. The girls are famed for their charm, and there are a 
score of pictures at every well and along every road. They carry 
themselves with the grace of poplars, or of slim reed." 




One of the numerous little canals of Buleleng, the only city on the 

Island of Bali. 



CHAPTER X 

Winsome Dancers before Goggling Gods 

"It's a good thing/' shouted Callaghan, "that we 
make Bali to-morrow/' He clung on to the hatch 
with both hands, and jammed his feet against the funnel 
as he spoke. Only like that could he retain his posi- 
tion. 

"Boy/' replied Bill as he picked himself up cau- 
tiously from the deck on which he had been flung/* you 
certainly have said a mouthful!" 

We had all been looking forward to seeing Bali the 
Beautiful but never more so than at that moment. 
We had been running through a soothing night of 
smooth sea and smooth air, a night of stars and laughing 
water, when suddenly a great wind came shouting 
down on us, driving us over to the gunwale. A sea 
rose to make you sad. The waters were shallow and the 
yacht was thrown about by the huge ground-swell 
which was on our beam. With each wave she rolled 
over imtil the water lapped over the rail. To and fro 
she went as though on a pendulum, and the rollers crash- 
ing against her broke in a cloud of spray over the deck. 
Usually in rough weather we ran a strong rope round 
the stanchions between the low rails and the awning, 
and several times that rope proved the means of saving 
one of us from being swept overboard. To-night, how- 

153 



154 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

ever, the blow came with such abruptness that we were 
unprepared. To pass along the deck you crawled cau- 
tiously from one point of safety to another. 

Those who had their night watches early were for- 
tunate. For the rest of us it was a sad time clinging 
to the wheel and trying to keep our feet as the boat 
rolled heavily, accompanied by the noise of everything 
which was not lashed down sliding from side to side. 

There was no sleep that night, for it was almost im- 
possible to stay in bunk or on hatch. Below with every- 
thing battened down it was stifling and on deck the 
drenching spray drove across. No matter how you 
wedged yourself in you were flung down on the deck 
the moment the muscles relaxed in sleep. 

Ahead, however, a lighthouse appeared winking en- 
couragingly, and dawn found us staggering in to where 
the twin volcanic peaks of Bali stood sentinel against 
the bright sky. 

Bali was worth the travail of that night. It is a 
wonderful place of girls who are fit models for a sculptor, 
of great rice fields hewn in the hillsides and magic in 
their beauty, of pictures without end, of goggling gods, 
and the funniest little dancers in all the world. Bali 
grips you with a lure beyond words, and every step takes 
you deeper into an Oriental fairyland. 

Unlike Java, Bali has remained untouched and un- 
spoiled. It is as it had always been, but it cannot re- 
main so much longer. The world will come trampling 
in. 

We spent happy days motoring through Bali with 



WINSOME DANCERS 155 

Mr. C. G. Edgar, a local merchant, and here for the 
first time in many months we spent nights ashore. 
Grown accustomed as we had to sleeping rocked in the 
arms of the sea with the kiss of the breeze on our faces, 
it seemed to us quite strange to find ourselves beneath 
mosquito netting in an ordinary room in the simple 
rest-houses which the Dutch have erected and which 
take the place of hotels. We fell to talking it over and 
discovered that in more than four months we had not 
slept upon shore. 

The Balinese are a beautiful and artistic race. The 
girls are famed for their charm, and there are a score of 
pictures at every well and along every road. They 
carry themselves with the grace of poplars, or of slim 
reeds. From early childhood they walk balancing 
weights upon their heads — ^no Balinese carries anything 
in her arms — and this gives them a wonderfully erect 
carriage. They look like statuettes modelled in gold, 
with their neat regular features, their great dark eyes, 
and their hair dressed so smoothly that no strand is 
ever out of place. 

They embroider wonderful fabrics with gold and 
silver thread, the intricate patterns being woven with 
real art. These cloths are rich and handsome, and it 
would be difficult to improve upon the workmanship. 
The art is restricted to Bali. They are also fine carvers 
in wood and stone, and as Bali has remained true to 
the Hindu religion the island is inhabited by the strang- 
est goggling gods. Java and all the other islands of the 
Indies became Mohammedan centuries ago, forsaking 



156 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the goggling gods, but for some unknown reason this 
little comer remained true to the old faith. And surely 
no religion save the worship of these absurd monstrosi- 
ties would be a fitting thing for Bali. Once a Christian 
missionary came who laboured for a lifetime here. He 
made one convert as a result. 

The villages are hemmed about by old gray stone walls, 
and you find inside a strange jumble of huts and babies 
and stooks of green or golden rice, and fowls and dogs 
and pigs. It was in such a scene that we came upon 
Bangoes Ktoot Mantra, a native artist whose work 
had in it a strange note of Gauguin, though, of course, 
he has never heard of the painter of Tahiti. 

He was sitting upon his veranda when we called upon 
him and screening him from the sun was a hand-painted 
curtain. On it he had depicted two girls bathing with 
a swan. The figures and the colouring were strangely 
reminiscent of Gauguin. Ktoot, who had never been 
out of Bali, spoke no English or Dutch, but his manners 
were perfect. Before him as he worked was a plaster 
caste of the Venus of Milo, but otherwise his home was 
pure native. 

When we arrived he was carving a fan on flat pieces 
of bamboo. Fascinated, we watched his unerring 
fingers as they guided a clumsy knife. The pattern was 
an intricate one depicting a girl in a bamboo glade, yet 
he had not even traced in a design. He was carving 
straight from his head, and the entire space upon which 
he worked did not exceed two square inches. 

He showed us much of his work, including a book 



WINSOME DANCERS 157 

which might well have been termed, A Gallery of De- 
lirium Gods. Here were all the tusked, many-armed, 
fat-paunched, goggling gods of Hindu and Buddhist 
mythology limned in brilliant colours and with a clear, 
clean line. Also he showed us book upon book of designs 
the nature of which must not be written here, but which 
indicated that behind those dreamy eyes lay a naughty 
brain! 

They are a practical people, too, these Balinese. 
Many years before the Dutch came they had built up 
their system of irrigation for the rice fields. There are 
hundreds of miles of channels and conduits, and by their 
aid even the highest slopes can be watered. I shall 
never forget the glory of the rice fields of Bali. They 
rose terrace upon terrace to the blue heavens. Here 
was only a succession of pools golden in the sunshine, 
here the surface was broken by the fresh green of an 
army of young shoots, here were the waving green 
battalions of the grown plant. About the terraces, 
ploughing with big water-buffaloes, planting laboriously 
by hand, tending the precious crops, worked the indus- 
trious, cheerful people. 

You would think, running through these spreading 
fields for hour upon hour, that here was enough rice 
to feed the whole of the East. But the Balinese live 
upon it almost entirely and there are over two million 
of them. They have just about enough for their own 
needs. 

It is no casual business, the cultivation of this great 
harvest. The natives have worked out for themselves 



158 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

a system of control by committee. Each village has 
its governing body which decides upon what days the 
various fields shall be watered, and imposes and collects 
taxes for the maintenance of the channels and con- 
structional work. 

There are also committees which look to the improve- 
ment of villages and impose a tax, native town councils. 
To these bodies were due such improvements as the 
bathing place at Tedjakoela. A big spring gushed from 
the hillside in this village and it was dammed, the water 
being carried down stone channels into a series of bath- 
ing places separated by green stone walls and orna- 
mented with the inevitable grotesque gods. The people 
flocked to stand beneath the cooling spouts, and out- 
side was a special bathing place for the tiny ponies 
which were very loath to move from underneath the 
sprays. 

These golden girls and men splashing beneath the 
crystal waters made a picture not to be forgotten. 

Cock-fighting is still the vogue here. Every house 
has its red-eyed birds in their circular bamboo cages. 
There is a lot of betting on the contests, and the crowds 
flock from all parts to witness the fights, the place being 
revealed by a great stream of tiny dog carts and hurry- 
ing people, flowing like a miniature Derby throng. 

You must never be surprised at anything in Bali. 

Entering a temple to inspect a great wall of absurd 
divinities we found two gentlemen squatting before the 
altar with their birds between them. There had been a 
discussion about the relative merits of their champions, 



WINSOME DANCERS 159 

and they had withdrawn to the peace of the shrine to 
decide the point. 

How the red eyes of those uncanny birds flashed fire 
as they flew at each other with ruffled feathers, striking 
savage blows with their spurs while their owners hissed 
them on. Presently one lay crumpled up and bloody 
in the afternoon sunshine, and the other lifted its devil 
eyes to the grinning gods and crowed its triumph. 

Our drive across the island to the most interesting 
southern portion was a very fascinating progress 
through a hilly land of wonder. We passed children 
with white wands driving great flocks of geese, reed-like 
girls washing in the golden streams far below, grave old 
men walking thoughtfully with sparkling krises thrust 
through their belts, and groups of men carrying huge 
trussed pigs, since the great feast of the Hindu New 
Year was at hand. 

By night we stayed in the rest-houses which were 
managed by Balinese, and where the food was very 
Dutch. They were primitive places of three bedrooms 
and a central dining room where lizards sported in 
scores upon the walls, and where the bathing arrange- 
ments consisted of a tub of water, the contents of which 
you poured over yourself with a bucket. 

We climbed 4,000 feet to see the twin volcanoes of 
Batoer and Kintamani. After our months in the 
tropics it was a strange thing to feel cold again, to stand 
shivering on the bare slope, the biting breeze of dusk 
setting its sharp teeth in our veins through which 
flowed blood thinned by the tropics. We looked out 



160 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

across a great basin in which was a steely blue lake. 
The shores were flanked with great waves of lava, and 
the volcano reared its high head 10,000 feet amid clouds, 
looking like some great old battle-scarred man who hid 
his wounds in fleecy swathings, and puffed at a giant 
pipe the while. 

In these cold altitudes the natives were of a some- 
what lower type, resembling South American Indians. 
They wore the same clothes as their brothers on the rich 
plains below, and as we stood and shivered there we 
wondered to see them going about wrapped only in a 
few yards of cotton. 

Up to the crest came a travelling family, a man, a 
wife, and a daughter. Each was laden with rice and 
other goods, and the burden of the child alone was so 
heavy that we had difficulty in lifting it. They led a 
tiny pony which was also carrying a great weight. 
They had come twenty miles and in order to reach their 
home at the foot of Kintamani it would be necessary for 
them to travel all night, using torches to pick their way 
across the sea of sharp lava waves. 

They started down into the depths as the purple dusk 
flooded down coldly from the mountains, and there was 
something in the patient perseverance of that little 
family which printed their picture very vividly. I can 
see them now as they scrambled down that steep hill- 
side, dimib and silent as suffering animals, while their 
little pony struggled and slipped behind them. Pres- 
ently they were drowned in the purple pool of night. 

Their village is a proud one, for is it not known 




Dancers and goggling gods — Bali. 




Mr. A. Y. Gowen, of the Speejacks, with Balinese dancing girls 



WINSOME DANCERS 161 

throughout Bali that although they are poor their gods 
are powerful? 

Upon the last time that Batoer's rumblings and boil- 
ings bubbled over, the great stream of death-dealing 
lava poured straight down the mountainside upon the 
village. It seemed that nothing could stop it, but 
in the path stood a temple. When the red tide reached 
the wall of the sacred place it stopped suddenly, and 
the village was saved. The citizens offered great sac- 
rifices. 

There is a strange temple at Goa-Lowa, too. This 
place is by the sea shore, and behind the altar is a great 
cave, which, tradition says, leads back through the 
hillside and runs out into the sea some miles away. 
An uncanny smell hangs over the place, and the ears 
are tormented with vague twitterings. You look far- 
ther into that grinning cavern and discover that the 
whole roof is black with bats. A stone flung into the 
dim recesses makes the air turn suddenly black with a 
living mass of bats. They swirl and dart and twitter 
everywhere, and the gods grin openly at your astonish- 
ment. 

This southern portion of Bali was conquered by the 
Dutch only as recently as 1906. The higher-class 
natives put up a good fight, but they were no match 
for the guns and warships of the Europeans. Ulti- 
mately, after sustaining heavy losses and inflicting only 
four casualties upon the invaders, they gave up the 
unequal fight. The northern half was occupied fifty 
years ago. 



162 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Strange things happen here. 

One night, for instance, the dogs in the vicinity of 
the rest-house raised a dreadful clamour. One of our 
Balinese boys crept into the comforting glow of the 
lights with his eyes very large and roimd with fear. 
He explained that prowling through the kampong was 
a dreadful creature of the night with the body of a dog, 
the face of a monkey, and eyes like lamps. We offered 
him a guilder if he would go out and catch it, but he 
shook all over at the suggestion. 

Nor are supernatural happenings the only ones that 
surprise you. 

Frightened by the approach of our car, a great buffalo 
attached to a clumsy wooden-wheeled wagon backed 
over the side of an abrupt ravine quite fifty feet in 
depth. 

Breathless, we stopped the car and stepped over to 
the brink to look at the remains. 

Far below in a chuckling stream the wagon lay on 
top of the buffalo with its wheels turned to the sky. 
The driver had escaped unhurt and seemed not one whit 
the worse for his headlong plunge. Already he was hard 
at work trying to salvage his big load of coffee beans, 
sodden bags of which were scattered about in all direc- 
tions. The buffalo lay very still in the mud, but we 
were so relieved to find the man alive that we had no 
pity to waste on the beast. Imagine our surprise, how- 
ever, when the animal gave a convulsive plunge and 
struggled out from beneath the cart. His owner looked 
over the beast and shouted up that he was uninjured. 



WINSOME DANCERS 163 

Why the deaths of both were not on our heads is 
beyond comprehension. 

The Hindu New Year came and Bah put on its gayest 
clothes and walked in beauty. Every village was 
decorated with most beautiful ornaments carved from 
green bamboo. At the end of the graceful bending 
canes floated bannerets and designs cut from the green 
leaves with infinite patience. Some of these were in 
the form of chandeliers and lamp shades, and they gave 
the streets a wonderful gala effect which was far more 
pleasing than our flags and ribbons. 

I have said that in normal times the roads of this dear 
island abound in pictures, but at this holiday season 
they became a source of unending joy. Every few 
yards you passed streams of girls in their gayest sarongs, 
their hair neatly dressed, wearing holiday smiles. On 
their heads they carried graceful brown wicker baskets 
piled high with cleverly arranged fruits. These were 
offerings to the goggling gods, and one envied them on 
their carved altars when those pretty little worshippers 
tripped in on their trim feet, and, bowing graceful 
bodies, placed their beautiful tribute before them. 

Everywhere were happy throngs all dressed in their 
best, the villages had been cleaned and swept, and there 
were great feastings, the food for which had been in 
preparation for weeks. 

A great time this for theatres and dances. 

Passing along beneath the velvet sky and the nodding 
palms we came suddenly upon a theatrical troupe on its 
way to give a show. They made a fantastic picture. 



164 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Enormous, grotesque, almost fearful huge figures 
nodded and swayed against the stars, made more 
gigantic by the fitful flares of scores of torches. Small 
boys rushed along making shrill clamour — just in the 
manner of small boys the world over — and the voice 
of the gamelan orchestra sounded quaint and whimsical, 
tugging at the heartstrings. 

To the magic of that music in an old, old temple 
beneath the stars, we saw the dancing of little elf-girls — 
girls who seemed not human in their beauty, but rather 
the embodiment of the calm night and the crying music. 

You must try and picture the scene first. 

This is a little temple built of red stone inlaid with 
china. Perched high among the stars sat Shiva and a 
host of other strange gods, many arms flung out, fat 
stomachs resting on knees, eyes a-goggle, riding upon 
weird beasts. On segments of coconut husks before 
them burnt little offerings of rice and meats and fish, 
the smoke rising in a blue plume straight into the still 
air. A lean dog crept from behind an altar and snapped 
up a dainty morsel, and the even leaner hag who was 
tending them cried shrilly and struck at it with a stick. 

Round about clustered a half-seen audience of Bali- 
nese, chattering and, now and then, raising their voices 
in a wild cry which blended with the music. 

It is impossible to describe adequately a gamelan 
orchestra. When I say that it consists of xylophones of 
wood, a drum, mellow gongs, and silver bells, it leaves 
you with no idea of the beauty of their music. It rose 
and fell gently like a baby breathing, it blared into 




A dancer at Bali, Java, and at the right, the gamelan orchestra. 




-a 

o 

CO 






WINSOME DANCERS 165 

violence with dramatic suddenness, it sobbed and 
laughed and sang. I cannot say in what lay the magic, 
but much of it was due to the time, which varied and 
yet was always the same. With each note you had a 
sense that there was inevitably only one particular 
note which could follow with the right effect — and yet 
you could not have said what that note would be. 
Above all it was plaintive, even when it laughed. There 
were tears in it, tears of pearl. It ebbed and paused, 
it rose again as the sea does on a white beach. It sang 
the anthem of the witch we call the East. 

You felt a sudden lump in your throat, you suddenly 
saw wonderful ghosts of fancy, you suddenly smiled — 
and all because of the art of twenty Balinese squatting 
on the ground before instruments from which a Euro- 
pean orchestra could have made nothing* 

Who, then, could fittingly dance to such an ac- 
companiment? 

Only these little elf-girls whom we had seen being 
swathed in yard upon yard of ribbon, bound tightly in a 
cocoon of silk, over which were fitted gay sarongs and 
embroidered jackets. Their little powdered immobile 
faces looked out from beneath pagoda-like headdresses 
of gold and many colours, on their ankles and arms were 
bracelets, on their fingers rings, and in their lithe young 
bodies all the ease and native grace which deer have and 
reeds have and the palms have against the stars. 

The gamelan wept and called for them. 

They stepped out into the open space beneath the 
goggling eyes of the high gods and danced. The music 



166 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

became suddenly a thing of flesh and blood. It seemed 
that the actual sounds danced there before you. With 
supple bodies, weaving arms, tiny hands and feet, they 
postured and bent and swayed, they fluttered their 
fans, they lived the music. 

These child-women seemed calm and aloof. Their 
faces were pale, and at rest looked as if they were carved 
in ivory; their big eyes did not look at the audience but 
seemed to be seeing the music in the heavy air. They 
were creatures of another world dancing for us but 
unconscious of our presence. 

There is a wonderful charm about immobility. We 
Westerners cannot express it. It takes the East to show 
a face which is devoid of all feeling and of all passion, a 
mask as much at peace as the mask of death, a mask 
which does not even betray a soul. It is as soothing as 
rain on a parched land. 

So these elf-girls danced. There was action in 
plenty, but it always mirrored and expressed the im- 
passive, the negative, the shedding of the vigours of the 
flesh. 

Never a smile, never a frown, never an emotion; only 
peace without monotony and the gamelan making 
mournful love to these spiritual mistresses. 

I don't think I overrate the charm of that perform- 
ance. I have not tried to gild the lily. In the bright 
light of sunshine, when we had the dance repeated to 
take photographs, some of the charm was lost, but there 
in the starlight in the temple it was all wonder. 

Back to their seats before the orchestra fluttered 



WINSOME DANCERS 167 

those elf-girls, and sat, still aloof and distant, their fans 
flitting fast as the wings of bats. 

A story followed in pantomime. 

A screen of batik cloth was drawn before them, and 
when it was removed one of those elf-girls had become 
a little warrior. Her costume was unchanged, but her 
mood was entirely different. In her hand was a kris, 
in her bearing bravado, a challenge. The thing she 
challenged was humped up mysteriously beneath a 
cloth. There was something strangely sinister about 
that hidden figure around which she stepped so 
cautiously, but with such an air of heroism. Suddenly 
she closed with it and wrenched away the draping. 

Out stepped grotesquerie triumphant. A monstrous 
great head with flowing white locks, bulging red eyes, 
and great tusks swayed and nodded on the shoulder of 
her elfin sister. If such a monster could have lived, its 
actions, you felt, would be exactly those which followed. 
It blundered and rolled and minced, the great head 
wagged from side to side, it lurched down upon that 
tiny champion. 

She stepped aside with haughtily uplifted arm as one 
who shuns something unclean, and the gamelan shud- 
dered. 

With the air which David must have worn when he 
attacked Goliath she stepped before it, and the gamelan 
shouted encouragement. You read in her every gesture 
her very thoughts, the impudent confidence of youth 
fighting a thing it feared in its heart; but her face re- 
mained a mask. 



168 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Suddenly — and now the voice of the gamelan swept 
up — she closed with that gibbering nightmare and 
struck it down with quick blows of the flashing kris. 
She struck it down, and the dreadful shape fell at her 
feet in the shroud of its own white hair. 

Her dainty feet trod the ground with the light pride 
of the conqueror. 

Here was a perfect piece of pantomime, a triumph of 
shades of meaning, of feeling, conveyed by gesture. 

Ah, little elf dancers of Bali, yours was the clean-cut 
beauty of a cameo, the grace of Nature, the embodi- 
ment of the untrammelled youth. You were perfection 
packed in the neatest of parcels, precious goods. 

We saw other dances in Bali in some of which were 
many dancing girls and clowns and men. But most 
vivid of all stand the impressions of this first perform- 
ance, though through them all ran the sweet magic of 
the gamelan sobbing and laughing. 

Yes, Bali fulfilled all our hopes. It is a wonder isle. 
Its rice-terraced hills, its verdant lowlands, its purple 
cloud-wrapped mountains, its unspoiled beautiful 
people, its temples and its gods, its wonderful jungle 
country — all these things make it a place of enchant- 
ment, a place of primitive beauty. 

But the world is reaching out its hands to make even 
this sanctuary commonplace. 

At the port of Boeleleng I read the first signs of in- 
vasion in a newly erected picture show. The usual 
gaudy posters were outside and the film advertised was 
called "Her Husband's Friend.*' There were hand- 




Cock-fighting is still the vogue in Bali. "You must never be 
surprised at anything in Bali. Entering a temple to inspect a 
great wall of absurd divinities, we found two gentlemen squatting 
before the altar with their birds between them." 




A native worker of the rice fields, Bali. 



WINSOME DANCERS 169 

some gentlemen in dress suits firing revolvers and a 
beautiful lady was fainting in coils in the background. 
And the great god Shiva grinned on the other side of the 
road, while a group of Balinese stood staring at the 
glaring poster. 

Down on the breeze came the sobbing of a gamelan 
played in some house. 

But the Balinese still stared at the unpleasant circum- 
stance of the passing of ''Her Husband's Friend." 

My heart was sad for Bali which the world — the 
noisy, dusty, horribly ordinary world — will not let be. 
Presently, I am afraid, a brass band will replace the 
gamelan and bunting will fiaimt in place of carved 
bamboo leaves. 

And people in heavy boots will trample down the 
individual beauty of that little island of delight. 



CHAPTER XI 

Colliding with a Junk and Climbing a Volcano 

To-morrow, we said, we will get the mail. You can 
hardly appreciate what that phrase meant to us. It 
was our anthem as we turned our bow for Java. At 
Sourabaya we looked forward to a record mail. It 
was six months since we had had any word from home. 
During that time, you must remember, we were out of 
touch with the world; seeing no newspapers, save those 
printed in Dutch, and hearing nothing. We had been 
hemmed in by a wall of hundreds of miles of sea. 

To-morrow, we said, we will get the mail. 

I repeat the statement because I have heard it so 
many times. It was on everybody's lips and we 
reckoned up the letters which would be waiting for us. 
So many from home, so many from girls, so many from 
chaps — we were like children on their way to their first 
picnic. 

Have you noticed that whenever anything exciting 
happened I always was at the wheel? I assure you 
that this is not due to the fact that I chance to be the 
teller of the story. It was pure bad luck, and I could 
have done without the thrills. That night something 
happened, and, of course ! 

It was pitch black, one of those nights when the ship 
seemed to be boring through solid gloom. I had just 

170 



COLLIDING WITH A JUNK 171 

relieved Jay and he had gone up forward looking out 
into the inky depths. I could just make out his figure 
in the weird cotton kimono in which he slept. With- 
out a second's warning a tall stick came spinning out of 
the night, and at the same moment Jay shouted. 

I put the wheel hard over to starboard, but too late. 
There was a nerve-shaking crash. In that second's 
glance the spar looked more like the top of one of the big 
wooden fishing cages which the natives build in shallow 
waters, so, dreading a reef, I kept the wheel over. The 
captain sprang to his feet with an oath, and I am sure 
that first bound of his took him right through the 
wheelhouse and onto the deck. The junk bumped its 
way along the side, its mast crashed into the dinghy on 
the davits, and heeled right over. For a breath it 
seemed to those on deck that she was going, and then 
she righted herself and swept away astern. 

The whole think happened in a second, quicker than 
thought. She was not showing a glimmer of light, the 
sail was furled, and as far as we could gather nobody 
was awake on board. 

We escaped with scratches and some damage to the 
dinghy, and the junk bobbed away into the night 
apparently none the worse for the collision. But if the 
crew could have heard the things we said of them even 
their Oriental placidity would have been disturbed. 

Navigators to whom we mentioned the occurrence 
said that the junks were a continual menace in these 
seas. It was the exception for one to carry a light, and 
lookouts were never posted. As they were strongly 



172 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

built though clumsy craft, they constituted a grave 
danger to shipping, even apart from the risks they ran 
themselves. 

With the knowledge that there might be a score of 
other junks in the immediate vicinity the rest of that 
watch was far from enjoyable, and "tricks" were held 
in great disfavour for the rest of the night. On the 
skipper's watch another junk, in complete darkness, 
drifted by quite close at hand, and it was entirely a 
matter of good fortune that we did not have another 
collision. 

What we think of junks — ^but there! 

From the old gunboat which has been converted into 
a lightship a pilot came out and took us in to Soura- 
baya, a place of many ships where we were dwarfed to 
the insignificance of a picket boat. He brought us our 
first bad news. It seemed that Java was celebrating 
another New Year, the Mohammedans' this time, and 
the post office was closed. 

This was a disappointment, but we collected a little 
mail through the American Consul and at our banking 
address, and were cheered by the report of the scores 
of letters which awaited us at the post office. You can 
be sure we were there at 9 o'clock next morning but 
what bitter moments awaited us! 

There is a Dutch law that no letters may lie at a post 
office for longer than thirty days. Practically our entire 
mail had been returned to senders! There was no 
record of the ordinary letters, but receipts for a score 
of registered packets which had been sent back indi- 



COLLIDING WITH A JUNK 173 

cated the size of the general mail. At the request of 
our bank the post office had agreed to waive the rule, 
but the memo to this effect had been overlooked by the 
clerk responsible. 

Some few registered packets had not yet left and 
these we recovered, but, for the rest, there was nothing 
to be done save adjourn to the hotel and drink the 
longest gin sling available. It tasted like poison. 

So we didn't like Sourabaya. We could find nothing 
good about the place. It is a noisy, greedy, straggling 
commercial port, and the jam of traffic in its streets 
was surprising. How accidents were not more frequent 
was a mystery, since the control was vested in absurd 
Keystone policemen, Javanese who stood and waggled 
little batons, but really did nothing of any value. In 
an effort to avoid trouble there was an incessant noise 
of bells and motor horns — a marked feature of all the 
towns in Java — and shouts and yells, and through the 
babel rushed an antiquated steam train which made 
day and night hideous with its warnings. 

Everybody in Sourabaya seemed to own a motor car, 
but the town, which grew very wealthy in the sugar 
boom, was experiencing a slump, and many owners of 
fine cars had them running on the streets as taxis in the 
charge of native drivers. 

On all hands you heard stories of financial difficulties, 
but in Java, as indeed all through the East, the im- 
pression left upon the visitor is that the good times 
have been so good that the bad times are not so very 
bad. It is rather like the poverty of a millionaire who 



174 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

misses a quarterly dividend — annoying, but a long way 
from bringing the sufferer to the bread-line. This 
optimistic view was not appreciated by the local 
inhabitants, however. They looked at you more in 
sorrow than in anger when you voiced it — but they 
continued to stay in the most expensive rooms in the 
most expensive hotels, to run their cars, to entertain as 
much as they felt inclined, drink as much as they felt 
inclined, and gamble for stakes as high as they felt 
inclined. Somehow they failed to impress you in the 
role of paupers. 

We docked our little sea-battered home, and decided 
that we liked Sourabaya less than ever. You can have 
no idea of the discomfort of having anything to do with 
a boat which is in dry dock. At the very moment when 
you wish to go aboard the dock is always flooded, and 
you have to make a perilous journey on a crazy raft 
of pieces of wood loosely lashed together and intended 
only for the supple, bare feet of natives. It is hotter 
than the nether regions shut in by those high walls, and 
the biggest mosquitoes known to man infest the locality. 

By day the ship is occupied by a swarm of brown 
devils who squat everywhere and trample to and fro 
chattering. About is the incessant row of steam ham- 
mers and other devices of the Fiend, and the usually 
spotless decks are littered with rubbish. 

No, if you love a yacht, never have any dealings with 
her when she is in dry dock. 

The skipper and the engineers were driven to frenzy 
by those casual workers. They would stand in blank 



COLLIDING WITH A JUNK 175 

despair on the dirty decks while they watched the 
workmen sneaking away for a spell, or falling asleep 
over their tasks. As an example of the methods em- 
ployed, consider the cleansing of the varnish from a 
rail. The workers arrived armed with tiny pieces of 
glass. They sat down on their haunches and stared at 
the rail for ten minutes. Several of them started to 
smoke and all spat with great vigour. They showed no 
inclination to move at all, until they were rudely awak- 
ened by harsh words spoken by indignant Americans 
and Australians. Then they started. With infinite 
slowness they fiddled with their absurd fragments of 
glass, never by any chance moving their hands a fraction 
faster than was necessary to avoid complete inaction. 
They fiddled thus for days before the task was done, 
and it was only the fact that they were so numerous 
which enabled the whole job to be put through in 
reasonable time. Numbers, not individual effort, were 
responsible. 

There was a lot to be done. Our little ship had not 
come unscathed through those thousands of miles of 
foam. Deep round her sides showed the marks of the 
cradle used in towing her across the Pacific, her bows 
were splintered by sundry chance encounters, including 
one with a wharf which was inflicted upon us by a fully 
qualified pilot who did not understand her tricky ways, 
there were traces of a thousand strange craft and canoes 
which had been beside her in half the seas of the world. 

The copper bottom had to be scraped, a new pro- 
peller and shaft fitted in the place of the one damaged 



176 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

off New Guinea, the valves in the engine had to be 
taken out and cleaned, and the ship had to be fumi- 
gated and polished up inside and out. 

But when you thought of the 20,000 miles she had 
come, and all the trials and tribulations she had been 
through, her condition was a fine tribute to her builders, 
and the state of her engine, overhauled for the first 
time, was little short of a miracle. She was as good as 
new still. 

She looked very small in that great dock, and a small 
tug behind her loomed up like a liner. In the next 
dock was a great Dutch steamer with a gaping hole in 
her bows. She had struck an uncharted rock in the 
very waters through which we had come. looking at 
her we thanked the stars that gave us luck. 

But we fled from our floating home in the possession 
of a thousand devils, leaving the less-fortunate crew to 
look to her. And, oh! their eyes were envious as they 
saw us escaping from the pandemonium. 

"Of course, you must see Tosari — that is Java's 
greatest health resort!" 

This statement was so unanimous that we went to 
Tosari, setting out with hearts glad to leave behind our 
demon-possessed home and the noise and dirt of Soura- 
baya. We went, I say, with light hearts, but observe 
what follows! 

On the way to Tosari you climb 6,000 feet in twenty- 
six miles, and you experience the novel sensation of 
motoring up a wall. You pass in a few hours from heat 
and glare to dampness and an unending curtain of 



COLLIDING WITH A JUNK 177 

cloud. There are films of mist everywhere, and from 
the veranda of the rambling hotel you look out into 
white nothingness. For half an hour at sunrise the 
curtain lifts somewhat and you get hints of a wonderful 
panorama, but for the rest of the time you are blind — 
and the chill clouds creep down into your lungs. 

The transition from the palm to the pine was rather 
a strain. We began to wonder whether, despite our 
efforts to take the good advice, we should ever be able 
to "see** Tosari. 

The hotel swarmed with naughty Dutch children — 
surely the naughtiest children in all the world. Driven 
in by the fog and the cold there was only one living 
room and this was always in the possession of a swarm 
of spoilt, brawling, petulant blonde youngsters, who 
made talk impossible and sleep a dim ghost of another 
world. 

Outside the fog flung its gray arms about in weird 
dances. 

Bromo, that sullen giant volcano, was the one re- 
deeming feature of Tosari, and even to see that you had 
to rise at 4 a. m. We set out on stocky Javanese ponies 
in the cold darkness, wearing every stitch of clothing 
we had brought with us, even to our pyjamas. Despite 
the fact that we looked like swollen bundles of second- 
hand attire the chill struck through to our very marrow 
as we rode through sleeping villages, along tree-clad 
hillsides, and up slopes terraced in steps. 

Coming to a bold promontory we halted, and the 
panting coolies who carried our breakfast of hard- 



178 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

boiled eggs, our cameras, and other equipment, caught 
up with us. Then over a serried range of purple peaks 
came the sun, and you held your breath for the wonder 
of the scene. Below was a great sea of cloud, shot with 
many varying tints, and away across, rising like an 
island, was the mud cone of Bromo, with the even 
higher peak of Smeroe smoking in the distance. 

The Sim and the mist battled with each other, and 
presently the warm beams conquered and the gray 
ghosts went stealing away, revealing a vast stretch of 
sand, the sand sea, shimmering in the sunshine. 

We went down to this sand sea by a precipitous path, 
and a wonderful gallop over its smooth surface followed, 
with the brisk air beating on our faces and the light 
dust from the giant throat ahead falling like snow upon 
us. Away in the rear the coolies followed at a brisk 
trot, tireless and unflagging, though their thin legs 
and poor physique suggested that they should have 
been inmates of a sanatorium. 

We left our ponies at the base of the peak and scram- 
bled up the flight of stairs hewn in the mud by the 
natives who come to worship the dread spirit which 
dwells inside. The top seemed far away, but we made 
it eventually, and looked down into hell. 

Steam, bubblings, rumblings, vague swirls and bursts 
of flung-up mud were properties in that devils' carnival 
which went on 500 feet down in that perfect amphi- 
theatre. The narrow crest upon which you stood 
trembled at the labours of the giant, and the dust fell 
thickly. Far below across the shimmering sea came 



COLLIDING WITH A JUNK 179 

the little black dots of the coolies, still running, still 
unflagging. Away on every hand great peaks rose 
to the sky, and above was a great canopy of smoke and 
steam. 

One could not blame the natives for making sacrifice. 
Here was a god of terror who might belch hell upon 
those who offended. Here the thunder and lightning 
and the tongues of flame were in hiding. Here was 
a grim giant of death. 

We fled from him back to the coolies and cold tea, 
and scampered across the sand sea to the hills again 
where the green bamboo mingled with growths of a 
strangely Northern appearance, though branded with 
the luxuriance of the tropics. 

It was 10 o'clock before we returned to the hotel, 
and though we had cantered for the greater part of the 
way the coolies arrived before us. For their morning's 
work they received the fabulous sum of one guilder, 
about forty cents, or 1/10 each. We blushed when 
we handed it to them, remembering what they had 
done, but they were well satisfied and jogged away 
chattering together. 

Having seen Bromo and having all developed colds 
of high calibre, we found little to detain us. 

A typical English-lady-travelling and her equally 
typical husband came into the one living room. They 
looked depressed and damp. 

"John," said she, **I suppose this must be a beautiful 
place, but when do you think we shall see something of 
it? When will the weather clear?" 



180 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Her husband coughed hoarsely. 

"How should I know, m'dear?" he grunted. "Boy, 
a whiskey and soda!'' 

They were new arrivals, and we could have given 
them a word of warning as to what to expect from To- 
sari. Instead we smiled cunningly behind our hands 
and left them to find out. And the naughty Dutch 
children pelted each other with the billiard balls, and 
screamed at the top of their voices. 

The Englishman shuddered and gulped down his 
drink. 

We went away, leaving them to their fate. We went 
down coughing and sneezing to the gold of the sunshine 
again. Even Sourabaya was better than Tosari at 
that season. 




A native artist at Djokja, Java, applying the wax "resist" of a 
batik pattern before the dyeing process. 




A Javanese woman dyeing batik fabric. 



CHAPTER XII 

Through the Green Heart of Java 

The ship was still an inferno. The time had not 
yet come when the evil spirits could be exorcised. 

Again we fled, and it was arranged that the yacht 
should be taken round to Batavia, where we would re- 
join it after a trip through Java. 

We left in the dirtiest little train in all the world — a 
train which puffed its slow way through a wonderful 
countryside where rice and sugar-cane fields, green 
mountains and villages, flickered by. Having seen Bali, 
however, we were rather blase to Java's scenic beauties. 

A dirty, crowded little train this, swarming with 
Dutchmen and natives. Javanese, Chinese, and Ma- 
lays surged in and out amid great excitement at 
every stop, and there was an unceasing stream of 
people passing up and down the carriages apparently 
with the malicious intent of tripping over your feet at 
the very moment when you were on the point of going 
asleep. 

As a matter of fact, the "best people'* do not travel 
by train in Java. We did, however, because we wanted 
to get to know the people — and you don't accomplish 
that by sitting in aloofness in a motor car. The Man- 
You-Meet-in-the-Train is one of the most informative 
persons of any country. At times he may be a bore or 

181 



182 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

a nuisance, but if you are fortunate you may learn a lot 
as he chatters to an accompaniment of the clickety- 
click of the wheels. 

We gathered much from him and all manner of people 
from the highest officials down, but of this more anon. 

Travel for us was a sorry trial owing to the number 
of cinematograph and other cameras with which we 
moved about. It was fortunate that we usually took 
our home with us. The making of moving pictures is a 
great trial even apart from this. I have often pitied 
Jay perspiring in the hot sun as he fussed about to get 
just the picture he desired in the way he desired it. 

One always imagines the taking of a cinematograph 
picture to be a matter of merely cranking the handle. 
Would that it were! 

You must have an artistic eye, a painstaking dis- 
position, an unfailing temper, and much energy to do 
the task right. You must not stand and swear when 
the film runs out just at the very vital point and the 
whole intricate business of reloading has to be gone 
through; you must watch the light and not be content 
to risk a bad effect by continuing when the sun goes 
behind a cloud; you must learn to lead white folk and 
brown to do as you wish in a manner that suits you. 

Often we fidgeted while Jay set up his camera, 
looked at the picture this way and that, shifted his 
position and otherwise took elaborate care, which, 
though most admirable, meant that we, too, had to 
linger in the hot sun far longer than was desirable. 

There was a consolation, however. One of these 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 183 

days when we are all old we will be able to sit in carpet 
slippers and a nice round smoking cap, and see the story 
of those brave days lived again for our benefit and that 
of our children. The parlour wall will give us back our 
youth. 

**Ah, me," we'll say, "when I was young !'' 

And though the youngsters may wink and yawn be- 
hind our backs we shall be well content. 

None too soon the train halted at Djokja, and 
grime-stained we crept like stokers to one of the best 
hotels in Java. These Dutch hotels are strange places, 
almost villages. They are built in long wings, so that 
each bedroom can have its own private veranda, and 
they cover a vast area for their accommodation. How- 
ever, the plan makes for coolness and privacy, and that 
compensates for having to walk several hundred yards 
through the open air to the dining room. 

The bathing facilities are always most primitive. 
Here for the first time since leaving British territory we 
discovered a shower-bath. It was a welcome change 
from the dipper and the tub of water which always 
suggested that the person before you might not have 
known the etiquette of the country and probably 
stepped into the water instead of pouring some over 
himself. 

Djokja proved to be very interesting. It is a centre 
of the sugar, batik, and brass industries, set in pictur- 
esque lands, and with the famed Boro-Budur Temple 
near at hand our days there were fascinating. You 
must go to Java sometime! 



184 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A German spent twenty years writing a treatise upon 
Boro-Budur, and staying in the same hotel with us was a 
professor from Boston, Mass., who might have stepped 
straight from the pages of a comic paper. He was com- 
plete even to a black umbrella which he carried with him 
everywhere he went. I fancy he was giving three years 
to his task. 

But being neither German nor hailing from Boston, I 
am not going to attempt a detailed description of this 
wonder which was built by unknown craftsmen in the 
days when Java was Hindu long centuries ago; which 
covers an area greater than that of the Pyramid; which 
was lost until the nineteenth century; and which stands 
to-day a miracle in stone. 

I can only confess my love for this work of dead 
hands, a love which came when I saw it in the moon- 
light. That is how you should see Boro-Budur first. 
Then its galleries are silent save for the patter of the 
ghostly feet of worshippers long turned to dust, and the 
echo of the tinkle of the chisels which carved these 
miles of bas-reliefs guided by cunning hands. 

In the moonlight the great graven mountain of 
stone — stone brought from no man knows where — 
stands dim and ghostly. A thousand Buddhas sit calm 
and pensive looking out across the moonlit country- 
side to the surrounding hills. These thoughtful gods are 
wonderfully wrought, with their broad foreheads, their 
calm set mouths, their dreaming eyes, and their fine 
hands folded on their knees. It is a good thing to dream 
there in the quiet night beside this god who is so calm 




Tan Kong Tien and his wife, of Djokja, Java, with Mr. Gowen, 
owner of the Speejacks. Tan Kong Tien is one of the wealthiest 
manufacturers of Java, employing 1,200 girls in the making of 
batik in their own homes. 




Rice culture results in curious landscape effects in Java. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 185 

and cold and still, so just and so old. In that mad light 
you could almost fancy you saw those great shoulders 
move in breath, and you waited with hushed heart to 
hear the wisdom of those chiselled lips. 

But Buddha does not speak. His eyes stare out 
across the fair land which once bowed down to him but 
which knows him no more. Perhaps the ghostly tinkle 
of the chisels soothes him. But, glancing at him side- 
ways, you realize that there is no regret in him at the 
loss of a kingdom. His only sorrow is for the whole 
wide world. A sad, silent sorrow, a strong sorrow. 
Here again, as in the faces of the elf-girls of Bali, you 
feel that magic of the East which is expressed in im- 
mobility. 

Very calm he sits and meditates, and he has balm for 
the harried Western soul. 

I rested upon the knees of Buddha there in the moon- 
light, but here was no act of sacrilege. Looking into his 
face I read there that he understood, that he appreci- 
ated the closeness of this live thing who was fascinated 
by his still wisdom, and who wished to rest his head 
upon that strong broad shoulder. Strange thoughts 
he breathed to me then. 

You go through the four galleries, which are sur- 
mounted by three open terraces, and on both walls in 
high relief are carved incidents from the life of Buddha. 
The stonework is graphic, speaking. Buddha gives his 
body to the tigress for her hungry cubs, sits in medi- 
tation beneath the sacred tree — lives all his lives again. 
There are, I fancy, six miles of these pictures in stone, 



186 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

but if you would have the facts accurately you must 
turn to the gentleman from Boston with the black um- 
brella. 

This shrine is not a place which inclines the mind to 
statistics. You wonder rather what manner of lives 
these artists led and what loves they had, these artists 
who in their short spans built this thing which has out- 
lived their very memory; you steal quietly along the 
green old galleries where the lizards frisk with the 
moonbeams, hoping, perhaps, to chance upon some dim 
ghost come back to stand in the quiet night and look 
upon the stone which his hands wrought so lovingly, 
and which placed him all unknown among the im- 
mortals. 

And up on the open galleries where the life-sized 
Buddhas sit beneath the bell-shaped stupas of stone, the 
wind runs whispering of dead days, and wherever you 
look the fixed, unreadable eyes of Buddha are upon you. 

''You, too, young friend, are only passing on," muse 
the thoughtful lips. The breeze runs sighing down to 
the warm heart of the sugar canes and the green of the 
rice fields where life wanes and springs again. 

He would be a fortunate man who would rest on the 
topmost terrace of Boro-Budur with his only love and 
see the sunrise. The sky above the mountains flushes 
to pink, the dim stone shapes about take more distant 
form; the spreading cup of green country flings off the 
mists of night; Buddha's features turn to stone; the 
light grows and glories; the triumphant sun stalks up 
the heavens, looking down upon Boro-Budur with a 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 187 

friendly eye as one with whom he has had long acquaint- 
ance. Down below a bullock wagon goes by with a 
tinkle of a bronze bell. The ghostly builders and 
worshippers fade like the mists, and there is a hush 
broken only by the twittering of birds. 

Ah, then, flee! flee! 

Take your only love, and flee away before the shrine 
is invaded. 

With the sun come bustling Americans, somewhat 
bored Englishmen, loud-voiced, strident Dutch women, 
chattering Chinese. They will rob you of your dreams. 
They will make Boro-Budur a thing of miles of stone. 
You know why, with the daylight, Buddha's face grew 
set and dead again. 

Flee! Flee! 

Going home through that sunny countryside we came 
upon a troupe of travelling players, who staged their 
performance for us in the middle of the road while all 
the queer jumble of Java poured past. Motor cars 
went by, honking their disfavour of the proceedings; 
great wooden-wheeled wagons groaned along, drawn 
by lazy humped oxen; in the background a man 
ploughed in a paddy field with a muddy buffalo; the 
sugar canes clapped their hands; old women on their 
way to market stopped by the roadside to watch the 
show and bandy words with the players and gossip, and 
the army of the Small Boy — the most mobile force in 
the world — acting on the advice of infallible and omni- 
potent scouts, sprang up as if by magic. 

A gamelan orchestra made sweet music and the 



188 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

weirdly attired dancers went through their performance 
with an absurd grace which was fascinating. Most of 
them wore black goggles and they were mounted upon 
tiny horses cut from wood and richly tinselled. On 
these they fought a cavalry pitched battle with sticks. 

It was all very childish, and yet there was something 
about it which we cannot catch. A note of something 
beyond the fooling — of the strange. 

" Tink — ^pause — tinkle tinkle — pause — pause — boom- 
m-m!" went the orchestra, and with marionette move- 
ments and arms which spoke the dancers stepped in the 
dust of the road. 

The small boys stood round-eyed, and a clown flung 
jokes at one shrewd-faced old woman. To judge by 
the laughter — quick and gusty — the jokes were not 
altogether nice, but there was no pause in that exchange 
of repartee. He impudently stole fruit from the 
women and they shook their fists at him but dared not 
say him nay. 

Your Harlequin is the world's free man, and only 
Columbine may hurt his heart. 

There are 35,000,000 people in Java, and that is a 
good thing for the prosperity of the island. The Java- 
nese believes in taking his time, and it is only by reason 
of his numbers, as we had learned by experience on the 
yacht, that the work gets done. We were taught the 
same lesson by the ghmpse we had of the industries 
of the country at Djokja. 

No native does much, but the grand total is amazing. 

Consider the making of batik — that cloth figured with 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 189 

strange mythical personages which is the national dress 
of the Javanese and which has enjoyed much popularity 
in the world outside. 

Tan Kong Tien, a wealthy Chinese, is one of the 
largest manufacturers. Outside, his house is not pre- 
possessing, but inside we found a beautiful home to the 
luxury of which East and West had contributed. 
Priceless bronze and china were put beside a Cutler desk 
and a telephone, and in the marble courtyard, roofed 
with blue sky, round which the house was built, brilliant 
parrots strutted amid ferns and orchids. 

Tan, a small and courteous man, dwelt here with his 
beautiful wife whose fingers were loaded with diamonds. 
His numerous sons lounged about the cool rooms in 
spotless pyjamas, and the eldest told you in perfect 
English that he was leaving for Holland shortly to 
study medicine. Tan had been bom in Java and 
neither he nor his father had seen China. 

He employs 1,200 girls in the making of batik in 
their own homes. 

We saw the various stages in the long and difficult 
process. Taking a piece of white calico, a small and 
serious maid traced upon it with infinite care a portion 
of an intricate pattern. She used a crude fountain pen 
from which flowed melted wax, and she worked without 
any preliminary tracing with her difficult material. 
Gradually, as her quick brown fingers moved, she cov- 
ered the cloth with a thick coating of wax, leaving bare 
only the portion which was to be dyed a certain colour. 

The cloth was then immersed in a vat of vivid blue. 



190 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

blue which had captured the strong tints of the sea. 
This operation was repeated twenty-nine times, under 
the sharp eyes of the gray old Javanese whose high 
breeding was indicated by the kris thrust through the 
back of his belt. Finally, when the unwaxed portion 
had taken the colour properly, the cloth was dried, and 
the wax removed. Other portions, including that 
already dyed, were then coated, and the cloth was 
immersed in a rich brown. Its entire surface with the 
exception of the small area remaining to be stained in 
still another colour was then covered, and with a 
further dipping and drying the piece was completed. 

Of course all this cannot be done in a day, a month 
may elapse in the process. But — and herein lies Java's 
strength — there is no lack of girls with the skill to do 
this laborious and delicate task. They receive less 
than a shilling a day. 

Batik making fascinates you by the skill with which 
the quiet brown girls work. It is a difficult thing to 
block out everything save the particular section of an 
elaborate pattern which you wish to dye on a cloth, and, 
when you realize the clumsiness as a medium of the wax 
in which they paint, there is fascination in watching 
those unerring fingers which work so well. 

European and American mills are turning out shoddy 
imitation batik which is on sale even in Java. But the 
real native work is a joy. Having seen the process by 
which it is produced you would expect to pay fabulous 
sums for it, but for ten shillings or £1 you can buy fine 
pieces. The local people pay less. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 191 

I have a great pity in my heart for us travellers in 
the East. We pay the highest price and usually depart 
in pride with goods which have been made by whirring 
machines in Birmingham. 

We haggle cunningly for hours and ultimately make 
a bargain at a price still three times above what would 
be just. We walk proudly away beneath our enormous 
sun helmets, and the East smiles blandly and sees us go. 

Java grew very rich when you and I were paying 
"boom*' price for sugar. Walking in the blazing sun- 
shine amid the towering stalks twelve feet high we 
heard loud lamentations from plump Dutchmen upon 
the fall in prices. 

We heard of a company which had paid a dividend of 
300 per cent, after the biggest year, and which had 
averaged 50 per cent, over seasons. 

"And this year," sighed the manager, "it will be a 
bare 12 per cent!'* 

Naturally enough you cannot buy the stock of that 
company. It is all held by half-a-dozen families, and 
even though they are bravely facing starvation on a 
dividend of 12 per cent, they show no particular incli- 
nation to sell. Perhaps it is a worthy spirit similar to 
that which compels a captain to stick to his ship when 
she founders! 

There are worse positions than that of a manager of 
one of these prosperous companies. He receives a 
handsome salary, a bonus of 10 per cent, on the net 
profits, has many months' leave in the off season, and is 
provided with a house. And what a house! We saw 



192 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

one built of white stones and floored throughout in 
white marble. The rooms, eighteen feet high, were as 
cool and gracious as those of a palace, and were panelled 
with Java teak — a beautiful wood. Furniture to 
match was supplied, and throughout were many curios 
and fine specimens of native work. Electricity, a 
water service, a motor car and garage, servant and 
guest quarters separate from the rest of the house — 
these were other items which a thoughtful company had 
given him. 

" It is a good enough life in its way ! " said the manager 
with placid content as he stroked the hand of his half- 
caste wife, and boys dashed about setting iced drinks 
before us. 

We were incHned to agree with him. 

On the sugar plantations Java was at work with just 
the same spirit that we had seen everywhere else. The 
work of one man was done by ten, but with millions to 
draw upon that mattered little. Out in the fields we 
saw the planting of miles of cane being done by hand, 
the cane full grown a year later being cut by hand and 
piled upon crazy trucks which were drawn by protesting 
bullocks along crude wooden rails. There was no 
attempt at labour-saving. Labour was the only thing 
that was cheap. The pagoda straw hats of the coolies 
dotted the fields like huge mushrooms. Each of those 
men costs sHghtly less than 6^d., about 13 cents, for a 
day of eight hours. 

It was all very primitive, until the moment when the 
laden truck arrived at the door of the great white 




Tahiti Louis" of the Speejacks crew was also a painter. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 193 

cement fabriek, or mill. Here, clashing strangely with 
the rest of the picture, were great modem machines 
which shouted a loud song in the heavy air — air which 
was absolutely sticky to the nostrils, so heavily was it 
laden with the smell of sugar. Giant crushing mills 
ground the cane, driving from it rivers of dark molasses 
which were purified and refined at last to great moun- 
tains of gleaming crystal. Nothing was wasted. Even 
the barren husks fed the oxen and made fuel for the 
great furnaces. Very modern and efficient were these 
giant plants which seemed so out of place in that green 
countryside. 

While we were at Djokja the Chinese gave a Passer- 
malen, or Charity Bazaar, to assist the work of Dr. 
Yap Hong Tjoen, who, after a striking career in Eu- 
rope, is doing splendid service for the people of the 
district. Its interest lay in its quick and illuminating 
revelation of the similarity of human hearts the world 
over when the fair is on. Walking amid those crowded 
rows of stalls where the "spruikers" made noises you 
might have been at Coney Island, at White City. 
There were just the same tired mothers traiHng behind 
them a stream of dusty, tearful children; there were the 
same sweethearts walking hand in hand or sitting at 
tiny tables sipping amazingly hued soft drinks; there 
were the same eager vendors of wares which nobody 
wanted; there were the same sellers of balloons for 
which small hands stretched longingly. 

In no sense was the Passermalen anything but native. 
There was no attempt to copy the fairs of the world 



194 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

outside. It was just the natural expression of the fair 
spirit, and it inevitably took a familiar trend. 

There was one new note, however, for above the 
noise rose always the mellow boom of brass. Now 
we make noises with brass also, but we do not get the 
Eastern effect. We do not catch the soft depth, the 
richness, the air-quivering throb which the Orient 
achieves. 

And that is only fitting, since brass is the voice of 
the East, it is her own special form of expression. She 
speaks thus, through a soft-voiced gong. 

But human nature remained the same, and the weary 
Javanese mothers, looking dubiously into their purses, 
had their exact counterparts in the Western world; 
and the keen, hoarse salesmen; and the Small Boy. 

Particularly the Small Boy. He is the everlasting, 
unchangeable unit in the human cosmos. He never 
varies. He is always grubby, always noisy, always on 
hand when anything happens, and always thrusting his 
way between the legs of the grown-up world to see what 
is to be seen. And wherever there is a paradise for 
small boys from Pole to Pole — a fair, a circus, anything 
— there are the representatives of the breed, standing 
wistful and hopelessly hopeful outside the magic portal, 
envious, despairing, lacking the wherewithal to gain ad- 
mittance to the magic show. 

If you have an eye for colour you could sit for hours 
on the broad piazza of the Societeit de Vereeninging 
looking out across the thronged streets to the purple- 
shadowed banyan tree which covers a vast area upon 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 195 

the farther side. All about you at little tables the 
Dutchmen sip their drinks and chatter loudly, a band 
plays, and inside in the picture hall, which has accommo- 
dation for 500 members, a show is in progress. 

But better far the unceasing film of that busy street. 

Javanese in their bright sarongs, burly Indians, 
green uniformed soldiers, high-class ladies with brown 
aristocratic features riding in tiny carriages with brown 
footmen, grave Chinese, an occasional Arab, a fat Dutch 
boy on a bicycle — his plump legs made absurd by his 
short stockings held up by suspenders — a creaking, high- 
built wagon drawn by humped oxen, an unceasing 
string of tiny jaunting carts drawn by tiny ponies and 
making clamour, big motor cars forcing a way through 
the human river — a never-pausing surge of colour and 
humanity. 

This club sees great times in the racing season. 
When a Dutchman gambles he does it with zest. Bac- 
carat is the favourite game, and it is played for high 
stakes. One man lost 250,000 guilders in a week-end, 
and left for his plantation again without a cent, hav- 
ing saved only enough from the wreck to pay his hotel 
bill. 

It was at the big native village of Wonotjatoor that 
we met the nightmare family — the most dreadful family 
in all the world. 

Though Wonotjatoor is close to Djokja it is entirely 
native. There are not even Chinese there. Though it 
has 20,000 inhabitants the place boasts only one road. 
Communication is by means of thousands of clean- 



196 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

swept paths which radiate off this street in all directions. 
These were strange little paths, not more than a couple 
of feet in width, and lined by the brown huts of the 
people. The sticks which formed the rough fences had 
begun to sprout, and they flung green hands across 
your head so that you walked down a leafy tunnel. 

Presently we came to a rambling old stone house 
where we saw the brass workers at their task in a tree- 
guarded courtyard, musical with the sound of blows 
struck upon metal. They were seated cross-legged 
upon the ground, and they beat quaint and elaborate 
patterns upon the brass vases and other ornaments 
which they cast themselves. 

Here, again, we saw the unfailing accuracy of the 
native hand and eye. There was no tracery upon those 
moulds, and yet they chiselled delicate lines with never 
a blunder. 

Others bent low over the carving and shaping of tor- 
toise shell and horn, polishing them with infinite pa- 
tience. About the yards and sheds doves in wicker 
cages cooed, and the clinking hammers laughed. 
Palms flung spidery shadows upon the ground, and the 
sunbeams danced upon the great piles of beautiful 
metal things. A fat-paunched brass god sat mutely in 
a comer while a small rooster perching upon his noble 
brow crowed defiance at the imiverse. 

This was a native workshop untouched by years of 
European rule — untouched save for two glaring litho- 
graphs which hung upon a wall. In these King Edward 
Vn smiled gravely out over the small brown workers. 




A bit of the waterfront at Singapore, Straits Settlements. **A11 
the world that travels passes through Singapore at some time." 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 197 

and President Woodrow Wilson's school teacher's fea- 
tures seemed a little saddened by them. 

We asked how they came there, but the proprietor 
shook his head. It seemed that he had found them 
wrapped up in brown paper upon the roadside years 
before. He didn't know who they were nor did he 
seem to care greatly. In a country where the portrait 
of the Queen of The Netherlands seems to be the only 
one used for decorative purposes their presence came as 
a relief. 

And, you ask, what of the nightmare family? 

Alas, they were real enough! You came upon the 
first suddenly as you swing round a corner in those 
clean, fresh alleys of leaves. It stood by the fence, 
mewing horribly, a shocking horror of a body, a thing 
which had stepped from the grave. It had no face, 
no hands, it was blind, and dumb save for that ghastly 
mewing. Eyes, nose, ears gone, wits eaten away, it 
stood there begging in the shadow-dappled sunshine, 
like some awful horror of a mad mind. 

You dropped coins and fled, but your shocked senses 
were still shuddering when you came suddenly upon 
another — so suddenly that you had to spring aside to 
avoid a collision with living death. You fled again, and 
found another. 

It was like a nightmare, and presently you found your- 
self running down that long way with the quick steps of 
fear, listening, like a scared child in a wood at night, 
for the sound of steps behind you, for the breath of pur- 
suit on your neck. 



198 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

And when you reached the car there was another 
mewing in your path, led by a Httle native girl not more 
than two feet tall who sang a cheerful little song as she 
held out a hat for coins. It was a picture to haunt 
you. 

The natives regard this nightmare family without 
any particular feeling. They accept them. There are 
twenty-three of them and we were told that clean girls 
had been known to marry them. Diamond sellers come 
to Wonotjatoor, and they offered a pension to these 
living deaths if they would keep to their homes on the 
days when they were to visit the village. But the offer 
was refused. 

From that family of disease which haunted the clean 
paths as the very embodiment of pestilence it was good 
to escape back to the normal world which flowed along 
the highway. 

From Djokja we went to Bandoeng, a pretty, health- 
ful little hill town, which will soon be the administrative 
capital of Java. Here for the only time since we had 
been in Dutch territory we found a real hotel, where 
there were suites with baths attached, and where the 
table was good and the management excellent. It was 
the exception to the rule as far as Dutch hotels were 
concerned. 

We went on and on by car through this greenest of 
green islands, with here the fresh green of rice fields, 
there the blue-green of bamboo, golden water, and 
cloud-wreathed mountains, villages beyond counting 
at every turn in the road, and babies and scurrying fowls 



THROUGH THE HEART OF JAVA 199 

fleeing across the road as our car passed. There is no 
monotony about motoring in Java. Every turn of the 
wheels brings a new picture, and the eye is fed by an 
ever-changing pattern of beauty. 
And so we came to old Batavia. 



CHAPTER XIII 

A Glance Astern and a Sailorman's Jewelled Girl 

Beneath us again is the lift of the sea. 

Maybe you are tired as we were of Dutch towns and 
the noise and bustle; of sleepy, unchanging mountains 
and sun-dappled rice fields. Beautiful, interesting, are 
all these things, but there is no mistress like the mood- 
ful, elusive sea. Therefore let us regard Java in retro- 
spect, from out here on the cool waters where the light- 
house winks good-bye to us, and the lamps of Batavia 
twinkle against the sombre sky. 

We are out here in the heart of the cool and mysteri- 
ous night again. The lightning is playing hide and seek 
at the windows of the towering castles of the clouds, 
the sea is soft and dim, lifting us gently up and down in 
its strong arms. And we are happy as schoolboys to 
be back on the Speejacks again, ridiculously happy, 
although there have been many moments when we have 
longed for such a respite ashore. 

The yacht is new again. The woodwork gleams 
whitely, everything is polished and cleaned, the little 
jar of the bent propeller shaft is no more, and down 
below are no cockroaches. 

It seems quite lonely without them! 

Where now are Clarence and Cuthbert, the two big 
agile fellows who evaded all capture in the top left-hand 

200 




Mrs. Lee Choon Guan, wife of a Chinese tin magnate of Singa- 
pore. "This sweet-faced, gracious hostess blazed and glistened 
with the glorious lights of countless diamonds." 



A GLANCE ASTERN 201 

drawer? Where is the family of seventeen which scam- 
pered about in the boot locker? Where are the three 
sturdy fellows who always nested in the old helmet 
beneath the starboard port in our cabin, and who raced 
away so nippily whenever their home was disturbed? 

Gone! All gone! sigh the ocean breezes. 

Often as we tried to kill them in vain, often as we 
hated them when they ate our swimming costumes into 
holes or devoured the bone buttons upon our shirts, we 
miss them now. They have been with us so long that 
it seems strange to be without them. In their place is 
the reek of sulphur fumigation which has not yet cleared 
away. Locks and brass work show signs of those fumes 
and guns are corroded. 

But there remains the strange exultation which has 
descended upon us with our return to our floating home. 

"Good to be back, isn't it?" We go about asking 
each other the question. 

Only Louis is not disturbed. 

"One port, another, all the same to me, sir,'' he says. 
"There is always another port and more sea. Always 
more sea, sir." 

But if he is philosophical about that he is very red 
and abashed when he comes aft to present to A. Y. a 
framed painting of a barque in full sail upon which he 
has been labouring for many weeks. It is a fine thing, no 
daub. The ship is living against the sunset. Looking 
upon it we recall how we discovered Louis painting that 
background months before 'way back in the Trobriands. 
Though he has never had any lessons he has talent. 



202 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"Not so good, sir/* said he, "but better because I did 
her here on leetle boat. Very hard to work here, sir." 

He goes up to take his wheel, very proud of the com- 
pliments lavished on his work. And the lights of Java 
wink astern. 

How noisy and crowded it is back there! That is 
one very strong impression you carry away from Java. 
The streets are long avenues of unceasing noise. The 
tiny carts jingle bells, motor car horns of devilish design 
sound unceasingly, there is a babel of voices. And even 
in Batavia there is a street train. It is a unique affair. 
They call it "the tea kettle train,'* and that just de- 
scribes it. The engine is nothing more than a thermos 
flask which is filled with steam from a pipe at each end 
of its run. It adds merrily to the noise. 

Through the heart of Batavia runs a broad river 
which has been walled in, forming a canal. In its dark 
golden waters women wash clothes all day. You would 
say that the only effect would be to stain the garments 
brown, for the stream is laden with mud and great 
islands of refuse float upon its surface. But there they 
stand upon the dirty stone steps and beat the clothes in 
dirt, and the ultimate result is to make them spotless. 
This is one of Java's mysteries. 

The Javanese are the most persistent people in the 
world in quest of cleanliness. All day you see them 
pouring mud over themselves, and by the same magic 
which enables them to wash clothes it does not trans- 
form them into clay statues, but seems to be quite effec- 
tive. I have seen natives washing in the thick waters 



A GLANCE ASTERN 203 

of "paddy" fields, pouring the soupy stuff over them 
with evident relish. And all along the canals they 
wash, wearing their clothes meanwhile. I should never 
be surprised to learn that the Javanese have washed 
themselves into their copper hue. 

Batavia, along with its smaller brothers, is quieter in 
the afternoon than at night. 

The noise of the traffic ebbs between 2 p. m. and 4 
p. M. to a far greater extent than it does between 2 A. M. 
and 4 A. M. The city sleeps, though the native life goes 
on to a large extent. At the hotel at 4 o'clock your 
boy brings you afternoon tea in tiny cups, and down 
below other boys sweep up the leaves with rough 
brooms. Yawning Dutchmen appear on their veran- 
das, and presently there is a renewed hooting of motor 
cars and a refreshed gush of traffic in the crowded streets. 

Then it is time to go to the club for a gin. 

I have said that in our progress into the Indies we 
saw things growing gradually, each town being upon a 
larger scale. At Batavia you cannot go into the prin- 
cipal clubs without feeling that you are entering a cathe- 
dral, and when you order a whiskey and soda you won- 
der if it is quite a proper thing for a bishop to do. 

They dance in these great palaces of marble floors, 
high roofs and pillars, to a huge orchestra which plays 
music of a vintage of some years ago to a time which 
suggests that every member has recently suffered a 
bereavement. It is the girls with the touch of the na- 
tive blood in them who are the most sought after for 
partners, They have a dark, slim grace in strong con- 



204 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

trast to their Dutch sisters. The Dutch girls usually 
grow amazingly plump after attaining twenty summers, 
and a long arm would be needed to encircle their waists. 

But here, as indeed throughout the East, all girls are 
in demand. There are so many men that an ordinary 
maid has her court, and one with any claims to charm 
becomes a queen. 

: If you have a sister whose single blessedness is be- 
coming rather a serious matter there are good chances 
for her east of Suez. The competition is delightfully 
slack there. Husbands, it seemed to us, were going 
begging, and the main qualification of a tropical wife 
seems to be that she shall be able to stand the climate. 

"Wonderful girl, my wife, stands the climate well!'* 
That is the greatest of compliments and it often covers 
a multitude of imperfections and, sometimes, sins! 

You leave Java behind with a feeling that, in com- 
pany with the rest of the Orient, there is a growing un- 
rest here. Gandhi's preachers from India have made 
their appearance, and there is much talk of Java for the 
Javanese. It is the same problem which Britain is 
facing, but the Dutch have neither the power nor the 
prestige of Britain with which to stem the tide. They 
have no easy task in the management of this small 
island with a population of 35,000,000, but they seem 
to be fair and far-sighted rulers. 

No European may buy freehold in Java, but he can 
take out a long lease. There is always a clause, how- 
ever, that, in the case of plantations and so on, half the 
land shall be for the use of the natives for the purpose 



A GLANCE ASTERN 205 

of growing rice. How, otherwise, could 35,000,000 be 
fed? And so the sugar estates rotate crops of sugar and 
rice on equal halves of their properties, and everybody 
else has to make the necessary provision for the food of 
the multitude. There is a ready recognition of the fact 
that the Javanese are the true owners of the island. 
But despite all this there is unrest. The millions have 
grown conscious of their strength. 

"We have educated the Javanese, and now he has 
learned too much," said a man who has dwelt among 
them for many years. "There were wise men who said, 
*If you would rule brown men keep them primitive,' 
but other counsels prevailed. We sowed in the kind- 
ness of our hearts, and now we reap a harvest of 
trouble.'' 

I While we were in Java an interesting example of the 
new spirit occurred. On the advice of a native regent 
twenty tax collectors were appointed by a resident, who 
represented the Dutch Government. Finding the 
whole crew dishonest he sacked them. 

"Put those men back, or there will be trouble through 
Java," said the regent. The men went back. 

"Once upon a time," complained a trim military 
officer, "if you killed a native with reasonable excuse 
that was the end of the matter. To-day you will be 
fined twenty guilders if you slap one in the face. Once 
we ordered, to-day we beg. There is trouble coming." 

We were told that the day was not far distant when 
still another peace offering would be made to Javanese. 
At present the nominal control is vested in the regents, 



206 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

but overlooking every action are their "big brothers'* 
— ^the residents. A plan is now being considered for 
abolishing the residents and leaving the control in the 
hands of three governors who will rule the three main 
districts of the island; thus placing much more direct 
power in the hands of the natives. 

The agitators have ample opportunity for their work 
among the natives, who, however, are apt to forget 
their preachings when the meeting is over. They go 
back to sit in the sunshine. It is hard to be a staunch 
and determined rebel when the sun is warm and it is so 
pleasant sitting about. 

Sometimes the audience is a little puzzled. 

At one meeting, after an impassioned address point- 
ing out that the day was arriving when the Javanese 
would come into the good things of the world which 
were his rightful heritage, the orator concluded on a 
more personal note. 

**Now that I have shown you the way to freedom you 
will each contribute a guilder,'' he said, and the natives 
paid, wondering a little at this introduction to the new 
day when everything should be theirs. The Dutch are 
not happy in the Indies to-day. 

But Java, with its noise and troubles, lies behind us, 
already lost and dim before the benediction of the sea. 

We had good news for our send-off from that busy 
port. Even as the screws churned up the muddy waters 
of the dock ahot-foot bearer of glad tidings came to us. 

Ahead of us lies the long trip across the Indian Ocean 
into the teeth of the monsoon. Experienced sailors 



A GLANCE ASTERN 207 

tell us that it is a practical impossibility for our little 
craft to beat her way through those tremendous head 
winds and sea. But down near the Equator the mon- 
soon blows itself out, and so after long studyings of the 
charts we decided to run from Singapore by way of 
Colombo and the Seychelles Islands, away off the coast 
of Africa, then making up the coast, in a certain degree 
of shelter, for Aden and the Red Sea. 

But the Seychelles are out-of-the-way dots on the face 
of the waters, and for weeks it seemed that all efforts 
of the Vacuum Oil Company to get us supplies of petrol 
there were going to be unavailing. No ships were call- 
ing from Africa with space for our shipment. 

Then, just when we had abandoned hope and were 
looking forward to the long and uncomfortable run 
from Colombo to Aden direct, there came news that a 
shipment had been despatched from Mauritius by sail- 
ing schooner. It was a wonderful stroke of luck. 
Without it, the crossing of the Indian Ocean might have 
been long delayed, since it would have been impossible 
to be towed through such seas. There would have 
been nothing to do but to wait until the monsoon season 
was over, and that in turn would have made us too late 
for the voyage across the Atlantic. 

But the luck held. Even as the ropes were cast off 
the news came. 

We are a cheerful ship's company, indeed, and even 
the sea seems to be in our mood. It chuckles and whis- 
pers absurdities as it slides past our clean sides. 

Up for'ard a song is raised and it goes romping away 



208 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

into the gloom which grows so heavy that it actually 
seems to weigh upon the eyelids. The face of the waters 
is hidden, as dim and mysterious as the face of a Mo- 
hammedan woman seen through her veil. Again comes 
that eerie sensation of sailing through a wall. 

There followed a day of flat calm, many big oil 
tankers and passenger steamers passing us, all very 
interested in this queer little craft which bobbed along 
across the broad seas. The sunlight sparkled upon 
scores of glasses levelled at us. We became a marine 
curiosity. 

In the evening we passed through the tortuous chan- 
nel of Banka Straits, which even boats plying regularly 
in the vicinity prefer to negotiate by daylight. To port 
and starboard lighthouses guided us, flashing warning 
of shoals and curves. Buoys swam out of the gloom 
and vanished again. After our months of sailing in 
dark seas we felt bewildered as a countryman does when 
he walks the briUiant streets of a city by night. We 
were unaccustomed to this luxury of watchful eyes. 

The captain did not stand his wheel that night, he 
had quite enough to do with the navigating. He slept 
for only ten minutes, and even in that brief period we 
succeeded in nearly colliding with a huge buoy, which 
at one moment seemed to be miles ahead and the next 
was right on our bow. 

But we came through, and dawn found us out on the 
light green waters of the China Sea. And here ill- 
fortune flung a black wing over the sunny decks. 

Bert, the cook, had had enough. He was always sick 




The railway station at Kuala Lumpur. "Kuala Lumpur was a 
surprise. It was white and glistening and beautiful. Even its 
railway station, in white concrete and built to a beautiful design, 
suggested a palace rather than a terminus." 



A GLANCE ASTERN 209 

when at sea, and to be expected to cook large and tempt- 
ing meals for hungry men when you are in the grip of 
that misery is a black thing indeed. I have seen him 
emerge from his tiny galley where he had been standing- 
by all through the morning to catch the pots and pans 
as they tried to fly off the stove. Dreadful odours, 
which normally would have been tempting, had assailed 
his nostrils all this time, and he had to look upon such 
terrors as melted butter and fat and boiled pork. 

His face would rise from that little hell like a green 
moon beaded with deathly dew. He would signal that 
lunch was ready, and would lie limply on the hatch 
while we ate the food which he had cooked with such 
soul-travail. 

With long, rough runs ahead of him his spirit quailed. 
He wrote a formal letter to A. Y. announcing his deci- 
sion to depart at Singapore. He had evidently laboured 
under the production of that screed, which had been 
written with a stub of pencil upon a long piece of pack- 
ing paper. 

"Dear Mr. Gowen, sir," it said, "it is with much re- 
gret that I wish to formally denounce my position." 

His "denunciation" was quite understandable. 

That night we crossed the Equator for the second 
time, and after a day of driving monsoonal rain which 
swept in across the deck and made life miserable we 
came, as all the ships in the world must come, to the 
witching lady, Singapore. 

With our gramophone playing a wireless concert to 
the shore station, our little white bird fluttered into that 



210 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

great sea junction with another 7,5(X)-mile stage of her 
long trail ended since we had left Australia. We had re- 
turned to civilization again. Ahead lay well-worn ways. 

Singapore is a port with a soul, with a personality. 
There is something feminine about the fascination of 
this city upon a small island at the cross-roads of the 
sea. You think of a witching Oriental girl with dia- 
monds on her fingers and diamonds in her hair standing 
on the seashore and beckoning in the sailormen from 
all the seven seas. 

The broad, wind-swept roadstead before her is filled 
with ships; great, rust-red tramps, towering liners, crazy, 
lopsided steamers which carry throngs of coolies from 
China and give off strange odours, huge lumbering 
junks, trim-sparred sailers, new Diesel boats, old ships 
converted to steam, and fleets of sampans. 

The flags of all the world flutter out to the breeze 
which comes romping in freshly from the ocean and lifts 
the white pennants from the dancing waves. The ships 
steal in and out, having paid tribute to the jewelled girl. 
There is never a time when a ship is not sliding in from 
the ocean or going to the waves again. The rattle of 
anchor chains makes incessant music, and there is a 
constant feeling of movement in the air. There is no 
stagnation in this busy court of hers. 

It is by night that you see the Oriental girl at her best. 
Then she is all aglow, palpitating, a thing of desire. 
The lights upon her gown twinkle and move. The ships 
on the dark waters glisten with a thousand points of 
light; red flares blaze where the work of unloading into 



A GLANCE ASTERN 211 

sampans goes on; the shoreline is lit as for a carnival 
with strings of diamonds, and a great clock keeps solemn 
guard. 

When you go ashore she is still all glitter. The 
streets are thronged with the lights of countless rick- 
shaws, all the open shops are solid gold against purple, 
motor cars become dragons with burning eyes. Look- 
ing down a long street it seems that it is alive, that it 
breathes, that it is a shimmering limb, studded with 
diamonds to lure the hungry eyes of sailormen. 

When you land, unless you give instructions, the 
cheerful rickshaw boys dart away with you to Malay 
Street as a matter of course. In Malay Street there is 
the music of strange instruments, and sloe-eyed girls 
beckon in another votary whom the sea has brought to 
the witching lady. There is the sound of loud laughter 
from the high, crowded houses which seem to lean down 
over the narrow ways as though they grudged the small 
breathing space. Still-faced Chinese go by with a 
clickety-click of wooden sandals; Indians watch with 
their keen black eyes, the street is a living mass of hu- 
manity of all shades and colours speaking all the lan- 
guages of the East. It is a way of Babel. It is hot and 
quick with the sense of crowds. 

From the eating houses come strange, sweet smells; 
vendors of sweets and soft drinks pass with high, quav- 
ering cries; and a dozen rickshaws dart toward you 
should you try to walk six paces. 

Inside those leaning, jumbled houses big Dutch sailors 
sit with Chinese or Malay girls upon their knees, and 



212 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

stokers find solace for the dreary hell of their lives in 
long draughts of Japanese beer. 

Here in Malay Street is the tawdry heart of this 
Oriental girl, but though you smile at the falseness of 
the glitter it fascinates you still. Sailormen's loves in- 
dulge in tinsel, but here is a new brand. She may be 
a "pretty lady,'' this Singapore of the Seas, but she is 
unusual. She has wild, warm kisses and her throat is 
good to see. Her eyes hold real desire. 

There is individuality about the streets of Singapore. 

Consider Arab Street. Along this thronged way the 
fat, fezzed Arabs sit, like waiting spiders in nests of silks 
and cloths of brilliant hues. The air is heavy with the 
breath of incense which small boys fan idly in tiny 
braziers, and with the scent of smouldering joss sticks. 
Thin-nosed and quick of eye, the traders pounce upon 
you like hawks, they haggle and protest, they Hft bony 
hands to heaven to witness that at such a price they 
will be robbing themselves, and then, brazenly, as you 
move away they reduce the price quoted by 100 per 
cent. 

Their keenness is to be felt in the very air. 

There is a statue near the seafront of Raffles who 
made Singapore. He stands looking out across the 
crowded harbour, and I wonder sometimes if in the quiet 
night that wise Empire-builder does not pass his hand 
across his eyes in wonder at this miracle which he 
fathered; this big, busy metropolis of the East which is 
free to all men. 

It was good to return to EngHsh-speaking territory 







a 







CD 




"^ o Q 



A GLANCE ASTERN 213 

again, to read English street names and see slim young 
English and American girls. Here, too, was activity. 
Men played cricket and golf instead of sleeping; the 
clubs were not cathedrals; the bands played real music. 
We felt that we had come home. 

In Singapore we found again the Girl who Danced 
with the Prince. She was welcomed as an old friend. 
She had come to be one of the show things of every 
English-speaking town. She is always young and 
pretty, her hair is always clubbed, she always has the 
reputation for being a bright and fearless talker, seldom 
is she one of the "best" people — "And fancy only a 
subaltern's flapper-wife, m'dear, a nobody, and there 
was the Colonel's wife standing there waiting to be 
asked!" — She is hated by her sisters. 

To belong to her ranks is to attain the crowning glory 
of the modern girl. You can't help liking her. She 
enjoys the triumph of youth. In the ballroom of the 
Hotel De L'Europe we had her pointed out to us, and she 
knew that we were being told of her fame. It pleased 
her immensely. It renewed her triumph. 

The type is wonderfully alike. 

All the world that travels passes through Singapore 
at some time. The cool rooms of the Singapore Club, 
where decorum is blended with wondrous gin slings, 
have been a shrine to half the wanderers of the globe. 
The Raffles and Europe labels are found on every bat- 
tered cabin trunk. Busy Raffles' Square, and the hos- 
pitable rooms of the Swimming Club, where lying in 
a long chair you look out over that haunting harbour, 



214 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the botanic gardens on the hillside where wax-white 
babies play in the charge of native nurses, the constant 
stream of rickshaws and cars — all these things are Singa- 
pore. You think of one of them, and there is magic 
to conjure up again the picture of the jewelled girl who 
waits with her toes in the blue waves where the ocean 
roads meet. 

It is good to sit upon the broad veranda of the Europe 
with a whiskey-stingah — which is half a whiskey and 
soda — before you and watch the cosmopolitan crowd in 
this clearing house of the East. There is always plenty 
to see. Snake charmers and jugglers appear and give 
their entertainment, a rope walker and his troupe sol- 
emnly chip holes in the roadway to erect the poles for 
their entertainment, and gentlemen drift up who beg 
to be allowed to remove your corns. 

Sitting thus one sunny morning we found ourselves 
the unwilling possessors of a large stuffed turtle. 

"Only fifty dollars, master," said the hawker. 

And at that we laughed. 

"I'll give you five dollars,*' said Jay, to demonstrate 
our utter contempt for his wares. 

"Sold!" said the merchant promptly. 

The story of our trip appeared in the local newspapers, 
and after that we paid the penalty for having a million- 
aire aboard. Out to the yacht flocked a great fleet of 
sampans, and the occupants streamed aboard. They 
had for sale silks and curios, precious stones of amazing 
size and suspiciously low prices, ivory elephants, and 
packets of cigarettes There were hundreds of them. 



A GLANCE ASTERN 215 

Tailors, animal dealers who wished to dispose of snakes, 
women who did mending and sewed on buttons sitting 
undisturbed on their tiny stools amid all the row, and 
gentlemen who removed corns by suction. There was 
even a dentist, who came with all his gear. His zeal 
was great, but his skill lacked something. He replaced 
a tooth which had come off a bridge. Jack was the 
victim. We found him in the morning sitting thought- 
fully upon the hatch regarding the tooth. He had found 
it on his pillow on awakening. But the professional 
gentleman had vanished again, into the seething heart 
of Singapore, and Jack had neither address nor re- 
dress. 

We looked a very small item in that busy harbour, 
but the traders thought otherwise. They bombarded 
us. They almost drove us off our own yacht. 

Near at hand, anchored quite close to us, was another 
American yacht, Captain SaHsbury's Wisdom II, a 
graceful little schooner. She had been anchored there 
for six months, the owner having returned to America, 
and her future movements were uncertain. The Ta- 
hitian crew were still abroad, and heedless of the sharks 
which abounded they swam across several hundred 
yards of water to inspect us. 

Louis and they were soon firm friends. 

"Very nice people are Tahitians, and I will go back 
to my sail-shop there some day,'* said he. "And a 
very nice town is Singapore. We are enjoying ourselves 
ashore at the picture shows, sir, but the girls here have 
not the kind hearts of the Tahitians." 



216 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Now that may be as it may, but I noticed that when 
Louis joined his friends in their shore-bound sampan he 
always wore his cleanest and best sailor suit. 

I fancy the jewelled girl has a wide embrace for men 
who come in from the sea. 



CHAPTER XIV 

Nights with Chinese Millionaires and an Unserene Sultan 

Suddenly the door opened and we found ourselves 
ushered into a Chinese Nights' Entertainment. We 
were whirled up in a round of feasts with millionaires 
for hosts, and we learned something of the wealth and 
lavish hospitality of the high-caste Chinese. 

There were sing-sing girls, and shark's fin soup, and 
opium. 

It started strangely enough. 

A registered letter arrived on the letter-paper of the 
Ho Hong Bank. 

"Honoured Sir," it read, "in view of your great ad- 
venture I shall be very glad if you will receive my invi- 
tation extended whole-heartedly to your good self, your 
captain, as well as your many attaches to attend to a 
Chinese feast and after which we will pay a visit to a 
Chinese theatre or a Malay one." 

We accepted in the belief that here was some wealthy 
banker in a hospitable mood. However, when we at- 
tended at the appointed rendezvous we found our host 
to be very youthful for the role. He ushered us into 
a car, and as we drove through the twinkling streets 
he confessed that he was a clerk in the bank earning less 
than £10 a month. However, when he and several 
of his fellow clerks read of our trip they decided that 

217 



218 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

they would pool the cost of the banquet — ^probably £20 
— and entertain us. 

We went with him to a three-storied Chinese cafe on 
the walls of which goggled many dragons. From the 
upstairs window we looked down upon a street which 
was crammed with yellow people. We wondered how 
that congested stream found room to flow, but it did, 
with a constant accompaniment of cries, jabber, and a 
murmur like the sea. There were fruit stalls, old women 
crouching in the thoroughfare eating rice, the sound of 
twanging stringed instruments. Here was a living 
artery of the East in which we were the only white 
shadows. 

We met our other hosts, courteous young men full of 
respect and very anxious that we should enjoy ourselves. 
They spoke English fluently and there was one who 
had been educated at Ohio University. Needless to 
say he favoured tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles. 

Waiters brought hot, scented towels for us to wipe 
our faces, and the feast began. The dish containing 
each course was set in the middle of the table and into 
this everybody dived with their chop-sticks, lifting the 
fare into small basins. 

There were many strange dishes. Gelatinous shark's 
fin, crab, lotus seeds, sweet-tasting chrysanthemum 
tea, and soup served last. It was very novel, but we 
were yet only at the portal of our Chinese Nights. We 
became connoisseurs of weird food before the week was 
out. 

The talk was interesting. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 219 

"You must have patience with China," said he of 
Ohio. "When one form of government goes down a 
country must find itself again before you can have 
peace. France had to find herself, Russia is now in 
the throes — why, then, expect China to become a 
peaceful, established republic in but a few years?'* 

"What are a few years in the Hfe of China?" said an 
older man. "For centuries an empire, we shall become 
a strong republic presently. We have lost our steady- 
ing rudder now, but the ship will right herself. There 
are many centuries ahead." 

When the long meal came to an end we went to a 
Chinese theatre, a great dingy bam of a place only half 
filled. 

"The picture shows have killed the Chinese theatre," 
said our hosts. "Even we prefer them." 

That story of the pictures killing the theatre had a 
familiar ring, but it was not hard to see that in the 
Chinese article their conquest was a walk-over. 

The play we saw was entitled, "How the Honest 
General Fought the Bad Barbarians." 

So full of strife was it that no actresses appeared, the 
women's parts being portrayed by men who spoke in 
shrill voices but acted well. 

It was an entertainment of bedlam. 

Up in the wings an orchestra made an indescribable 
noise. Every move was accompanied by a clash of 
brass which deafened, every sentence was preceded 
by clamour. Stage hands, in ordinary clothes, walked 
across the stage handing properties to the actors, and 



220 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the families of all concerned seemed to be sitting behind 
the scenes, for at intervals a naked brown baby or a 
couple of youngsters would wander on to the stage to 
be removed, protesting vigorously, by calm parents. 

Here was much symbolism. 

The good general viewed his troops engaged in a 
bitter battle on the plains below. His mountain look- 
out was attained by the simple process of climbing upon 
an imdisguised table. The armies were represented by 
four very emaciated gentlemen who seemed to be in 
imminent peril of real collapse as a result of their con- 
flict. 

The barbarians, distinguishable by their painted 
faces, seemed to have the better of most of the fights, 
and the good general spent most of his time lamenting 
at the receipt of bad news, lamenting in a shrill chant 
to an accompaniment of ear-splitting pandemonium 
from the orchestra. 

Dead men were scattered all about the stage, but 
they rose time and again and strolled off. The armies 
mounted horses by drawing sticks from their sleeves 
and carrying them in their right hands. The good 
general wept and the barbarian raised his fists to heaven. 

And meanwhile the greater part of the audience slept 
peacefully amid the din, and the other half chattered. 
Nobody paid any attention to the mummers. Boys 
brought tiny dishes of dried melon seeds and bananas 
and set them on the arms of our chairs. 

"There are many, many dialects in China," explained 
our hosts. "We do not understand what these people 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 221 

are saying, but it is an old story from Chinese history/' 

By the time the good general had suffered his tenth 
defeat and been captured for the third time we were 
quite deaf and nearly stifled. We left without learning 
in what manner Right was ultimately recompensed for 
its many reverses. You could hardly blame us. The 
play was a serial, and three more nights would elapse 
before the grand climax. It was a dreadful thought to 
consider the number of battles which the emaciated 
chorus would have to fight, and the fearful frenzy of 
the orchestra when at last the crowning moment arrived. 

On our way to the dock we stopped our rickshaws to 
purchase some cigarettes from a wayside stall. Though 
its shelves were ranged with tins of well-known brands 
the owner declined to sell more than a dozen cigarettes, 
contending that any more would deplete his stock. 

Such an attitude struck us as being absurd. We laid 
down a dollar and seized a tin. It was empty! Then 
he explained the mystery. His entire stock was the 
dozen cigarettes, and the rest only empty show. 

They gave us an interesting evening, and they were 
very proud young men. 

"We shall be famous among our friends,'* said they. 
"We have been honoured." 

They deserved to be famous for their pluck and enter- 
prise. 

When a good friend asked if we would mind some of 
the Chinese merchant princes of Singapore inspecting 
the yacht we agreed readily for his sake. We did not 
realize what was to follow. We did not know that by 



222 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

this simple act we would find a key to open the doors 
of palaces. 

All the world knows the culture of the Chinese, and 
yet, no matter how you may school the brain, a refer- 
ence to a Chinaman usually conjures up a laundry- 
man. 

Of course, we didn^t expect that, but neither were we 
prepared for the suave polish, the genial courtesy, and 
the quick intellects of these Eastern gentlemen. The 
younger men had all been educated at Oxford or Cam- 
bridge, the elders had been poHshed by much travel and 
by wide experience. Their wives were subtle little 
beauties carved in ivory. Their homes were palaces. 

We lunched at the Raffles' Square rooms of the Gar- 
den Club and then rode in fine cars — everybody owned 
one — to the house of Mr. Lee Choon Guan, by the sea- 
shore. It was a two-storied house, standing in a beau- 
tiful garden looking out over the sparkling waters across 
spreading green lawns, stunted trees, and well-kept 
beds. Approached by a marble causeway was a pavil- 
ion built over the sea. It contained three bedrooms 
and living quarters and was a delightful place of coolness 
and singing waves. 

Inside, the house itself was crowded with rare Chinese 
work, with souvenirs of many trips round the world, 
and with a thousand things of luxury and art. There 
were photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Lee in their court 
dresses when they were presented to the King, of 
Clemenceau taken on the lawn of their home when the 
Lees entertained the French Premier, of their sons at 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 223 

Oxford or Cambridge, and of Mrs. Lee receiving her 
O. B. E. for war work. 

"If you would be interested, my wife would show 
you her diamonds,*' said Mr. Lee. And then with a 
note of apology, " It is not that she wishes to make dis- 
play of them but '' 

We would be delighted, of course! 

Mrs. Lee disappeared for a time and when she re- 
turned we caught our breath. It was as though Alad- 
din's cave had been plundered. This sweet-faced, 
gracious hostess blazed and glistened with the glorious 
lights of countless diamonds. With European dress 
the display would have been dazzling, too brilliant, too 
rich — ^but on the handsome blue silk mandarin dress 
she wore it was in keeping. 

On her smooth black hair glistened great circular 
combs, on her bosom were great round shields, about 
her neck was a wide collar. Diamonds glittered on 
her fingers, and her dress was pinned with diamond 
brooches. 

As she stood before us smiling amid all that blaze of 
glory she became of a sudden a symbol for the riches of 
the oldest of races, for the sumptuousness of the East. 

Then she opened boxes and we ran our fingers through 
stones beyond counting, made up into many ornaments. 
She had three complete sets, and her daughters had their 
own. There was one great blue diamond as big as a 
pigeon's eggy literally, which had been exhibited at the 
Paris Exhibition, where she had seen and bought it; 
there were diamonds clear white and diamonds showing 



224 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

strange, illusive lights; there were — ^but who shall de- 
scribe the cold, sharp beauty of those trays of gems? 

They made up one of the finest private collections in 
the world, and were worth a king's ransom. The eyes 
ached with their wonder. 

We had tea served in the garden and the sunlight 
glistened on those stones, striking from them the hard 
light of the eyes of sirens. Here was a pretty picture. 
Our hostess sat with three pretty Chinese girls admiring 
an ingenious toy. Their dark eyes were alight with 
interest, their slim fingers made play, their neat little 
feet peeped from beneath their rich silk Chinese dresses. 

Prettiest of all was Mrs. S. Q. Wong, a reed-like girl 
with a smile like summer rain, and soft deep eyes be- 
neath delicate brows. A schoolgirl, you would have 
said, and yet she had been married ten years and was 
the mother of six children. We were unbelieving until 
we saw those children in the flesh. It seemed incredible. 

I know many a white wife who would give all she 
possessed for the secret of youth which this ivory girl 
possessed. 

Her husband — quick, modem, witty, keen, and the 
best of fellows — you might have imagined had just left 
Cambridge. He looked only a lad. It is some years, 
however, since he returned to Singapore, and to-day he 
is one of the political influences in the Federated Malay 
States, representing the strong body of his countrymen 
in a hundred ways. 

The toy which formed the centre of the group was 
interesting in itself. Mrs. Lee set down a small jew- 







2 



o 

I 
I 

o 

i2 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 225 

elled box, and the lid suddenly sprang up. Out popped 
a bird not more than half an inch in length, but a per- 
fect piece of modelling complete to every feather. This 
tiny thing opened its beak and burst into song as clear 
and loud as that of a canary. Its wings flapped natur- 
ally, it raised its head — the thing was alive. Then as 
suddenly as it had popped out, it finished on a crystal 
note and popped down beneath the lid again. 

No wonder those slim hands were clapped in glee. 

The toy came into Mr. Lee's possession from a friend 
who had occupied a house of his for twenty years with- 
out having the rent raised. When the tenant left to 
go to England it was estimated that Mr. Lee had saved 
him more than £2,000. He gave the wonderful toy, 
which is 100 years old, to Mr. Lee in recognition of the 
fact. 

"We were more than repaid," said our host. 

With pins we carved our names on the broad leaves 
of a cactus which forms a living autograph book and 
which bears many well-known signatures, and then we 
went on to the seaside quarters of the Garden Club. 

Here was a garden club, indeed, and not one of us 
had seen anything of its kind more perfect. 

Picture a house of marble, gleaming white and cool 
as moonshine, with before it terraced velvet lawns 
stretching down to that blue sea over which was a white 
pagoda pavilion; all the fences made of coral and sea- 
shells; orchids flinging painted hands to the gentle 
breeze; great crystal globes catching the late sunshine 
here and there; palms walling the sky on either hand; 



226 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

over all the deep glamour which is in tropic atmosphere, 
a note of vivid fierceness in all the tinting. Picture 
these things, and you have some idea of the Garden Club. 

But you would need to know the members to com- 
plete the scene. 

There was the genial old soul whom you were con- 
vinced was merrily intoxicated when you met him first, 
a round ball of a man, a Chinese Bacchus. He had 
an inexhaustible stock of good-humour, it exuded from 
him, and he played the quaintest tricks with pronun- 
ciation. 

"Mr. Goo-en,'' he said. '*And Mr. Coo-lins, and 
Mr. *Terri-bur Ro-gers." 

So, with much solemnity he gave us toasts, and hav- 
ing consumed brandies beyond counting he was not 
one whit different. Liquor seemed to have no effect 
upon him, and whenever you met him he was the same. 

There were large placid merchants with moon faces 
wreathed in smiles, there were thin, parchment-skinned 
bankers, there were crisp, alert thinkers and politicians. 

There were also many dainty, winsome, highborn 
wives and daughters, the consul's beautiful wife who 
had been educated at Columbia University, shy little 
maids and wise matrons, and much dancing and chatter. 

We ate a many-course dinner with chop-sticks. There 
were shark's fin, bird's nest soup, boiled squid (twenty- 
four hours in being cooked), rice boiled in lotus leaves, 
and other dainties, each Httle more than a snack, but 
making an imposing total which we found played havoc 
with digestions accustomed to simpler things. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 227 

Our Chinese Nights went on. 

On the following evening we were entertained at 
dinner at the palace of Mr. Eu Tong Sen, generally 
admitted to be one of the finest homes ever built by a 
Chinese. 

You arrived by way of a drive guarded by statues at 
a beautiful portico, and you exhausted your adjectives 
in the marble reception hall where cocktails waited. 
After that you walked through those four floors of mag- 
nificence bereft of words. 

On the ground floor was a complete barber's shop 
where one little slant-eyed maid shaved you and an- 
other made sweet music. There was an automatic 
electric lift, and to each bedroom was attached a bath- 
room larger than the living rooms of most big houses. 
There was a ballroom, and music, card, billiard, and writ- 
ing rooms which could only be described as "stately," 
and from the broad marble veranda you looked out 
across the jewelled beauty of Singapore to the harbour 
and the dim ocean. 

Everything was marble, stairs and walls and floors. 
European paintings were hung amid priceless Chinese 
curios, and wherever you moved silent-footed attendants 
appeared and lights and fans were switched on even if 
you were only in the room for a minute. A London 
expert was brought out specially to plan the furniture, 
which was all made in England. 

Mr. Eu, genial and courteous, smiled proudly in the 
midst of his glory. 

His hospitality matched his home, and twenty-eight 



228 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

people sat down to a dinner which was a triumph? The 
table was perfection and a score of boys brought us clear 
soup, shark's fin, roast chicken, white mushroom, fried 
brains, bamboo shoots, shellfish, stuffed pigeon, boiled 
pudding, and ice cream. 

The chatter which ran round the table was consider- 
ably more interesting and brighter than you would ex- 
pect at a similar European function. 

The dancing which followed was made enjoyable by 
many good partners, while the amount of refreshment 
consumed was astoimding. We had a wonderful eve- 
ning the memory of which will linger always and we left 
in cars provided by Mr. Eu, feeling that we had enjoyed 
a glimpse into an Oriental fairyland. 

Mr. Eu has four other houses like this in the Straits 
and China. They may not be quite as magnificent, 
but they are all palaces. The convenience of this, as 
he explained gravely, is that when he travels he can do 
so without luggage. He simply motors from one to the 
other — each is complete with its own staff and is in full 
running order. 

They told us that nobody knew how much money 
Mr. Eu was worth — and that was not hard to believe. 
I fancy he is far too busy to have found time to count 
it himself. 

How different was the life of these merchant princes 
compared with the ordinary ** tourist'' view of Chinese 
Hfe. We saw the other side at a banquet which we had 
arranged to take at a restaurant before we knew the won- 
derful hospitality which was to be showered upon us. 




An aqueduct at "Crater Town," the upper city of Aden. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 229 

Truth to tell we would have been glad to cancel the 
arrangement, but that was out of the question. 

Again the scene was set in a garish, dirty, dragon- 
decorated cafe in the heart of the Chinese quarter, and 
we ate with chop-sticks the strange food with which 
we had become familiar. But there was a new note 
on this occasion in the presence of the sing-sing girls. 

These girls are a class by themselves. Their business 
is to entertain with music, and, as far as foreigners go, 
they move not a step further. 

They sit behind your chair at dinner on a tiny stool, 
and are allowed to drink and smoke, but not to eat. 
They ply your glass and light matches for you, but they 
are as frightened as deer of white men. They shrink 
away even while they are performing these duties. 

And yet there is a charm about them. 

They wear little straight skirts reaching to their 
ankles, and little straight jackets with a collar which 
buttons straight up the neck, and they have that haunt- 
ing immobility of the East. While a fiendish orchestra 
deafened us, they sang endless chants in a high-pitched, 
monotonous voice. They broke off and started again 
without rhyme or reason as far as we could judge, but 
they held you as they sat there gazing fixedly before 
them, the red lips in the ivory faces repeating the words 
as though they were hypnotized, their almond eyes 
beneath their pencilled brows gazing through the wall 
into nothingness. 

But they were poor flirts! 

These girls may make four or five visits to banquets 



230 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

in a night, and they are paid 11/6 (nearly three dollars) 
for each visit. 

Some of the most popular ones make £100 a month. 

They accompany themselves at times upon Chinese 
harps which they play with thin pieces of stick; and they 
drift in and out, vaguely as ghosts. 

Also they fill opium pipes. 

Now Rogers and I wanted a new sensation. Chinese 
dinners were right enough, but it seemed, by this time, 
that we had never eaten anything else. On either side 
of the room were lounges, canopied over with silk and 
inlaid with mother-of-pearl. From all about came the 
crash of brass and the tinkle of beaten strings, in the 
cafe across the road another banquet was in progress 
and the two bands of musicians made wild discords. 
From below came the throb of the busy street. 

"This is the moment to try opium," said we. 

The Chinese advised us that five pipes each would 
be ample, and so with a sing-sing girl sitting cross- 
legged beside us on the couch we set about the task. 

Let me say immediately, that opium-smoking for the 
novice is not a vice which he will long to indulge in 
again in a hurry. 

The solemn-eyed little girl, aloof and far away, took 
a long pin and dipped the end into a small jar of the 
treacle-like substance. This she heated over the lamp, 
twisting it the while into a ball. 

She inserted this in a hole in the side of the big bam- 
boo pipe and handed it to us. We had been instructed 
to inhale hard, and we did so. The taste of the smoke 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 231 

was as that of tobacco slightly tinged with a smell of 
burning rubber, and we puffed blue clouds to the ceiling, 
lying there with bamboo pillows beneath our heads 
waiting for the wonderful dreams to begin. 

Three puffs at the pipe, and the whole process of re- 
loading had to be gone through. This constant inter- 
ruption and fussing was distinctly discouraging, par- 
ticularly as five pipes had had no effect upon us. 

With the enthusiasm of discoverers we persevered. 
We watched each other's faces for signs of blissful sleep. 
We went to twelve pipes before we wearied of the 
foolishness, and then we left those couches, which re- 
fused to be haunted with dreams, sadly disappointed. 
The only effect of the blue smoke which we had in- 
haled with such labour was to remove entirely any 
effects of whiskey and soda which might have been 
upon us. 

There was no "kick" in opium, we decided. 

But next morning we knew otherwise. Next morning 
we discovered that the pipe had a kick like a mule. 
Our heads sang, our interiors burned, and bright stars 
buzzed before our eyes. We were sick, sad, and sorry. 
We hated opium. 

That morning I was in a bank when an Indian 
"doctor" entered. He handed us a letter setting forth 
that he spoke no English but could cure any disease by 
simple methods. Perhaps he saw how ill we were. 

"There is no need for you to beheve, but your chance 
is here," ran his introduction. 

He was quite an ingenious fellow, and we watched 



232 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

with amusement while he shook his head sadly over a 
native who was apparently in a very bad way. He had 
told the boy to hold in his hand a glass containing a 
chemical mixture which rose when the heat affected it. 
The patient's face blanched in terror. He prescribed for 
a dollar. 

Then he turned to us. 

Learnedly he pushed the end of my second finger and 
then tapped the knuckle. Quick as a flash he pro- 
duced a trick book, containing a number of pages which 
he flicked rapidly. On each was scrawled a sentence in 
four languages. 

"You are very sick!** 

Flick! 

" Your lungs are hot ! ** 

Flick! 

"The hot has gone to your head!*' 

Flick! 

"You must take three of my pills.** 

It really was not a bad diagnosis, for, though I de- 
clined the pills, there could be no denying that my 
lungs were hot and that my head had been affected. 

By this time we were in danger of being entertained 
to death, but still another engagement lay ahead. We 
were asked to dinner at the Chinese Singapore Club. 
Only A. Y. and I felt strong enough to attend. Rogers 
and Jay were limp with strange food and drink and late 
hours. For them a lullaby in the yacht*s arms. 

Our hosts, with nice judgment, gave us a fine Euro- 
pean dinner, but otherwise the night was very Chinese. 




Tanks in the water system of Aden 




One of the ancient Tawalla tanks of Aden, Arabia. This old water 
supply system was discovered and restored in 1895. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 233 

Here we saw them in their Bohemia where you did as 
you liked and where wives did not. It was a busy 
evening. And here, too, we saw sing-sing girls, of the 
highest type, before whom our poor ordinary wenches 
of the previous night grew dim and pale as the stars at 
dawn. 

They were very dainty and primly gay, diamonds 
glistened on their fingers, and their smiles were slow 
and enigmatic as they sang their little songs. 

We had a cheery evening, but nobody drank too much 
save one Chinese with an Irish face who crept into 
every conversation with the persistence of a bee. 

"It does not follow!" was all he would say, but there 
were few sentences which were not rounded off in that 
way. His energy was amazing. 

We shall certainly not forget our Chinese Nights. 
They were a wonderful experience. They wrote bright 
pages of Singapore in the book of memory. 

There enters now, with a great schoolboy bellow. 
His Serene Highness, Sir Ibrahim, Sultan of Johore, 
G.C.M.G., K.B.E., and holder of a half-a-dozen native 
honours. 

He enters in this fashion because it is his habit, 
because he is anything but "serene." 

I was introduced to him at luncheon at the Raffles, 
where he was being entertained by two oil men whom 
he treated as brothers. He shouted a greeting, and 
when I recovered my breath after his handshake I tried 
to take in this potentate. He stood at least six feet 
four inches and he was broad in proportion. He wore a 



234 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

khaki uniform. His big bold black eyes roved every- 
where, his dark face was commanding and full of a 
jovial arrogance, his big hands drummed with nervous 
energy. 

He was a great bull of a man, a sultan of romance. 

"Come, I can't be sitting here all day," he cried to 
the boy. "Lekas!" 

That is Malay for "hurry.'' It is the most-used 
word in the Sultan's rich vocabulary. It is on his lips 
day and night. Everybody hears it. 

The frightened boy fled up with a rum omelet. Sir 
Ibrahim ate some and then started to his feet. 

"Want to come to Johore?" he cried. 

He passed through the dining room like a gale, he 
cried out for his helmet and stick, he cried out for his 
motor car. And white-eyed Malays fled in all direc- 
tions to do his bidding. 

The Sultan owns twelve of the most expensive cars 
money can buy. To-day he was using his Vauxhall, 
and from what we saw on that drive across the island 
his native chauffeur must have had all his nerves re- 
moved when he entered the Sultan's service. 

First we halted at a livery stable where a typical 
Australian horse dealer came out and was hailed by his 
Christian name. 

"Yes, Sultan," he said, "the stallion's gone across. 
He's a knock-out!" 

"Send the accoimt to-day. Bill, or you won't be 
paid," shouted His Serene Highness. 

And he meant it, too. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 235 

He insists upon prompt rendering of accounts and 
pays immediately they are received. One of the big- 
gest stores in Singapore was instructed to submit its 
reckoning on the first of each month. On one occasion 
it was not sent until the fourth, and the Sultan, backed 
by legal advice, declined to pay. That three-day delay 
cost the store a few thousand dollars. 

The big car purred along the crowded road, the 
speedometer showing fifty miles an hour. 

"Lekas!" yelled His Serene Highness, prodding the 
driver in the back with his swagger-stick. 

The speedometer crept up to seventy miles an hour. 

"Lekas!" 

It wavered up to seventy-three and stayed in that 
vicinity for the greater part of the run. The chauffeur 
drove wonderfully. We missed lumbering carts and 
heavy-laden coolies by matters of inches, we swung 
round comers on two wheels, and ultimately we 
bounded on to a waiting punt at a speed of thirty miles 
an hour, the brakes going on with a jar at the very 
moment when it seemed that nothing could stop us 
from flying on into the water. 

Johore is situated on the mainland, and is separated 
from the island on which Singapore stands by a narrow 
strait across which a causeway is being built. Over 
this the train which connects Singapore with the main- 
land will run. 

It was a fascinating, happy little kingdom, this, as far 
as one could judge. For all his boisterous, boyish ways 
this Sultan is a clever business man. When he sue- 



236 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

ceeded to the throne, Johore was on the verge of bank- 
ruptcy. By building up tin and rubber enterprises the 
Sultan has reestablished the fortunes of his country, 
and his personal wealth is valued at £1,000,000. It 
is not a bad record for a man who has also found time to 
enjoy life to the full. 

But the man, at fifty, is a ball of living energy. He 
is keen upon horses, upon cattle, upon his army, upon 
himting. He lives hard and at a pace that would kill 
most people. He plays with equal zest. He has killed 
forty-five tigers, and is a fine shot. He plays polo. 
He rules with a strong hand. 

The car passed along neat, well-made streets — drives 
would be a better description — and pulled up with a 
jerk before a bungalow. 

" Daud, Daud, where the are you, Daud? " shouted 

His Highness. Out on to the veranda came a small, dry 
Malay, the only person in all the world who would be a 
fit private secretary and right-hand man to this burly 
Sultan. Major Dato Daud is older than the Sultan 
but looks a mere boy. He is a very high-caste Malay, 
indeed, and a cynical humourist and the best of fellows. 
His eyes sparkle brightly behind his horn-rimmed 
glasses. 

The Sultan treats him appallingly and loves him like 
a brother. Daud speaks his mind quite plainly to his 
ruler and loves the ground he walks upon though he 
has resigned a hundred times. The bigness of his 
master makes up for his schoolboy bullying. Daud 
is a hero worshipper, and Sir Ibrahim is his hero. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 237 

"Don't like your wrist-watch," said the Sultan one 
day. 

He pulled it off the wrist of his aide and flung it into 
the sea. 

"There is no harm in it — he is so impetuous/' said 
Daud with a smile, when the story was brought up. 

Daud, then, thus rudely awakened from his after- 
noon siesta, dressed with lightning rapidity, while from 
the car the Royal Voice demanded in tones of thunder 
that he should "Lekas!'' and inquired if he were not 
dead what he was doing. 

He emerged in a matter of seconds, unruffled and 
smiling blandly, the threats of a terrible death glancing 
off his imperturbable good-nature and understanding. 

And all the time His Serene Highness joked and 
laughed and talked in his great voice until you felt as 
though you sat with a dynamo. He was neither still 
nor silent for a moment, and his great white teeth 
flashed continually. 

We had a drink, and then he was off again. 

"Show 'em everything," he told Daud. " Fm too busy 
to be walking about looking at things. Have those 
bulls come in? And what are the boys doing with the 
new horses?" 

He was off like a shot from a gun. 

"Lekas!" we heard him yelling. 

"He is very energetic, the Sultan," said Daud 
gravely. 

There were many wonderful things in this little 
kingdom. 



238 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

We went to the old palace which had been turned into 
a museum. It had been locked up for the night, but at 
a word from Daud the whole place was reopened for us. 
The value of the contents is estimated at £250,000. In 
guarded strong rooms we saw many treasures, including 
a complete table service in gold for 100 people. Even 
the salt cellars were of gold. There was a similar 
service in silver, swords of gold with diamond-studded 
hilts, and ornaments and trophies beyond number. 

You were struck by the seemingly casual nature of 
the guard until you learned that by an ingenious 
arrangement of mirrors the movements of visitors were 
watched with care. 

The whole house was a storeroom of wonders. All 
the curtains were of fine tapestry, there were giant 
chandeHers ten feet in height of the finest cut glass, 
and room after room of examples of native art which 
would have made a connoisseur green with envy. 

Though it is a museum the house remains a palace 
which can be used for entertaining. The bedrooms 
retain their tremendous four-posters, the living rooms 
are all ready for occupation, and there is a huge 
marble banqueting hall of beautiful design which seats 
100 people at a single long table. 

When this hall is set for a feast with the gold service 
and the Sultan's orchestra of ninety pieces plays on the 
marble dais the scene is the embodiment of the gorgeous 
East. 

Johore has an army of 2,000 men. They wear a 
neat uniform of "shorts" and a tunic with a red fez, and 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 239 

we saw them drilling on a fine parade ground with 
a precision which was notable. An officers' mess — 
containing a photograph of King George when, as a 
midshipman, he visited Johore and was entertained by 
the present Sultan's father — and barracks are part of the 
military establishment. 

There is a race course one and one half miles in 
length close to the palace. No races are held, but the 
Sultan keeps the course in good order as a hobby. Here 
we found his three sons playing a game of polo. They 
were big lads, just back from being educated in England, 
and it was strange to hear these sons of a dusky sultan 
in their own domain speaking the modem vernacular of 
a young man about town. 

The resemblance to their father is marked, and they 
seem to have inherited plenty of his energy. Each has 
his appointed task. Thus one is a veterinary surgeon 
and has charge of the horses, another is an electrician 
with many duties, and the third is interested in the 
clerical side of managing the kingdom and businesses 
involved in its prosperity. They were nice boys. 

Singapore — which has all a tropical town's pro- 
pensity for gossip — rings with stories of the Sultan. 
His wildness forms the subject for terrible tales, and 
people who talk of his temper do so with bated breath 
as though they spoke of the devil. But it is noteworthy 
that those who know him best like him best. They 
do not paint him as a saint, but they claim that his 
virtues more than compensate for his vices. They say 
he is a man, and a big man at that. 



240 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

He is head of all the Mohammedans in this part of the 
world, and as such wields even greater power than as 
Sultan. During the wartime rebellion when Singapore 
was in a sorry strait he proved his loyalty in many 
ways, notably by capturing thirty men unarmed, using 
as his only weapon his religious power. 

Daud was equally energetic, and one of the smiling 
little major's most prized possessions is a silver cup sent 
to him anonymously by "an unknown admirer for his 
service to the Empire during the rising.'' Even before 
that, however, he values the title which his Sultan has 
bestowed upon him. "The Order of the Sultan's Well 
Beloved " is its designation, and such he is beyond doubt 
even if he does live to a constant accompaniment of 
"Lekas!" 

We met Sir Ibrahim again before we left. 

" I shall go to England soon to tell the King that I am' 
his man," he said ere we parted. There are worse sub- 
jects than Sir Ibrahim, despite all the gossip of the 
Singapore busybodies. 

And so we left Johore carrying with us a feeling of 
having been in touch with an electric disturbance, a 
feeling of being somewhat dazed akin to that which 
follows a struggle with the elements. The mind was 
filled with this picture of these two strong, contrasted 
characters living and playing hard, cursed at and 
cursing, big man and small, making a success of a 
kingdom, shooting tigers and selling rubber, and always 
alive — very much alive. 

And as the punt carried us back through the dusk to 




"The curb market" in Aden, Arabia. 



WITH CHINESE MILLIONAIRES 241 

Singapore's island where a car awaited us, we heard the 
voice of Sir Ibrahim floating through the calm of the 
evening with a deep note like the bellow of a bull. 

"Lekas, damn, Lekas!" was the order which His 
Serene Highness was giving to a subject. 

How that bullying schoolboy who is a fearless man 
must trouble his casual Malayan subjects! 

And yet they love him. 



CHAPTER XV 

Odd Ports and Across an Ocean 

The night was black as death, and the lights of 
Singapore winked at us no longer. As is the way of 
those who go down to the sea we had left behind our 
jewelled girl, and sought new loves. 

The waves welcomed us back with a growl and a 
shout, and tossed us hither and thither, at a time when 
we would have appreciated a little more tenderness. 
Our round of banquets had left us in poor condition 
for such handling. 

For this reason, though Port Swettenham looked dull 
enough it was hailed with joy. Twenty-eight miles 
inland lay Kuala Lumpur, capital of the Federated 
Malay States, and that promised to be more attrac- 
tive. 

The train which took us there panted through a 
succession of rubber plantations, the trees standing 
ranged for mile upon mile in well-drilled army corps. 
These estates, we learned, were owned by Europeans 
and worked with Indian labour, but beyond Kuala 
Lumpur were as many acres again which were the 
property of Chinese employing their own countrymen. 
A planter who journeyed with us shook his head over 
the state of the rubber industry, and explained that 
though their coolies were paid twice as much as the 

242 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 243 

Indians they worked so much better that the Chinese 
production costs were kept lower in times when every 
cent counted. 

Kuala Lumpur was a surprise. 

It was white and glistening and beautiful. Even its 
railway station, in white concrete and cement and built 
to a beautiful design, suggested a palace rather than a 
terminus. It was in Eastern style, and its minarets 
and turrets gleamed with a beauty novel in such a 
utilitarian structure. 

White was the prevailing tone of this capital of 
charm. 

The stately Government buildings carried on the 
note of the palatial, and the mosque was a dream in 
stone — graceful and chaste against the vivid blue of the 
sky and the rich greens of the trees. The club was a 
handsome place, and it was rivalled by the quarters of 
the Young Men's Christian Association which were 
a gift to the town from a wealthy Chinese. 

Mr. Eu Tong Sen, that bland and hospitable mer- 
chant prince of Singapore, had placed his Kuala Lumpur 
residence at our disposal. 

"I only use it when I visit there," he had said, "and 
it is in full working order. Make yourselves at home 
there!" 

We stayed at a hotel, however — there must be limits 
even to the hospitality of the East — and telephoned to 
Mr. Eu's secretary. He appeared promptly, a smiling 
and courteous little man who reechoed his employer's 
invitation. When he found that we had made up our 



244 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

minds not to impose further upon his kindly master, he 
suggested that he should take us to the tin mines. 

This offer was accepted gladly, and out in a sun- 
baked wound in the earth we saw the precious soil being 
compelled to yield up its harvest of tin — a harvest 
which ran as high as 73 per cent. ! 

It was a primitive business, for the methods were 
those of the East where flesh and blood are cheaper 
than machinery. Coolies were everywhere. The mine 
looked like a disturbed ant-hill. Men dug, men 
dragged the tiny trolleys, men shouted, men chattered. 
The European mind was staggered by this outpouring 
of unaided human effort. 

Machinery entered only into the crushing and wash- 
ing. After crushing, the soil, mixed with water, gushed 
down an incHne in which were ** stops" over which the 
water and mud flowed, but the tin ore fell to the bot- 
tom. The operation was repeated twelve times, until 
little of value was left in that stream of dirt, and the tin 
was sent to Singapore to be smelted. 

But here again was the sad story of tropic enterprises: 
the price was so low that only the richest mines were 
operating at a profit. 

We returned to Mr. Eu*s house, and though it did 
not rival his Singapore palace many a millionaire of the 
Western world would covet it for his principal residence. 
It was cool, stately, and comfortable, and housed a 
valuable collection of Eastern treasures. The place 
was fully staffed, and we saw that the claim of his 
friends that Mr. Eu could go to any of his homes and 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 245 

enter into immediate occupation was well founded. 
There was even a motor car in the garage, and in this 
we journeyed back to Port Swettenham and the yacht. 

To port lay the great island of Sumatra and we 
headed for it, reaching Belewan DeH, the nearest har- 
bour to Medan, the capital. The ways of the Dutch 
authorities are strange. We found our way into the 
port, and though we flew the signal for a pilot none 
appeared. Eventually we took up an anchorage of our 
own selection, and waited until a launch came off with 
the pilot who explained that the doctor had left for the 
day. 

He bowed, he was polite, but he assured us that it 
would be impossible to land until the following morning 
after the medical examination had been made. 

At an earlier stage of the trip we would have accepted 
the decision, but the shore beckoned to us, and we had 
grown wise in the handling of white-clad men who board 
ships from launches. 

The visitor was shown over the boat, A. Y. presented 
him with one of his best cigars, and we drank to The 
Netherlands, making sure on the several occasions that 
his glass held a giant's "tot"! 

After that he bowed the more, grew more polite, and 
finally thought it might be permissible for us to land 
without further formality. 

We did so, and piled into a motor car to go to Medan. 
But another official sprang up. He was not nearly as 
suave as the other — in fact, he was hot and bothered. 
He poured out a tumultuous torrent of Dutch at us. 



246 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

he tried to make us understand by signs, but it was all 
to no effect. Vaguely we wondered what we could 
have done. We had visions of a night in the cells. 

A passing citizen explained the position. 

"He tells you," said he, **that you must not carry 
deadly weapons ashore under pain of death!*' 

Hastily we explained the innocence of our stock of 
photographic apparatus, and all was well. 

Heralding the approach of a town, shops sprang up 
along the roadside. They were such as we had seen all 
through the Indies — the tiny, open places with strangely 
varied stocks, among which the proprietors sat waiting 
with infinite patience for the customers who came so 
seldom. The manner in which these Oriental traders 
contrive to grow rich is hidden forever from the eyes of 
mere white men. 

There was nothing in this to prepare us for the beauty 
and richness of Medan. The car swerved suddenly, and 
the scene was changed as completely as it would have 
been in a revue. We were in a thronged, busy thorough- 
fare, lined on either side with fine stone buildings, and 
we halted before a hotel as splendid as any we had seen. 

It came as a shock. For some reason Sumatra had 
sounded wild and mysterious, suggestive of oily rivers 
and Malays armed with krises. We had imagined 
that we had gone back to the backyard of the world. 

But the Dutchman believes in comfort, solid com- 
fort, and he sees that he gets it. Boys in neat uniforms 
sprang up in legions, our bags were snatched away, and 
we sat again round a marble table on a marble veranda 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 247 

with cool drinks before us, and the busy river of the 
East flowing by. The scene was similar to many we 
had seen, unchanging yet never the same, but it re- 
tained its glamour. In a large field opposite hundreds 
of natives were playing football, and down the road 
thronged Asia. Stout Dutch matrons, bearded Arabs, 
immobile Chinese, pedalled gayly along as though 
Medan still dwelt in the "craze days'' of the 'nineties. 

There were 90,000 people in this place which we had 
pictured as an "outpost in the wilderness." 

Remembering our experience of Tosari we were a 
little dubious regarding Dutch mountain resorts, but we 
were pursuaded to visit Brastagi, some forty miles back 
in the ranges. This trip was quite another story. We 
drove along a perfect motor road mounting higher and 
higher between walls of dense, lush jungle. At inter- 
vals the sea could be seen, faint and blue and fading into 
a distant, misty horizon. Monkeys swung from bough 
to bough. It was unreal, fantastic, dream-like. We 
were in the green heart of a primeval world. 

At about 4,000 feet trees became trees again, rather 
than bulging mounds of green, and as we climbed to our 
destination at a height of 4,800 feet the tremendous 
sweep of fertile valleys opened out below us, green and 
magical in beauty. The whole island appeared as a 
succession of swelling waves of jungle-green. 

Up on the roof of Sumatra we found a group of small 
cottages, and a comfortable wooden hostelry where we 
were made welcome, despite the fact that the place 
was full. 



248 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"It is so strange/' cried the manager. "Everybody 
seems to have decided that it is well to spend this 
week-end at Brastagi!" 

There was nothing strange in it at all, for Brastagi 
was a place of coolness and beauty which refreshed body 
and soul after the blaze of the lands below. We realized 
that our disappointment in Tosari, after all, might have 
been due to nothing but a spell of bad weather. 

On our way down it rained, and there should be no 
need to dwell further upon the intensity of these tropic 
downpours. We floated down from the heights. In 
the course of our mountain voyage a drenched Hol- 
lander told us that since the war the rainy and dry 
seasons had lost their identity. He attributed this to 
the effects of the heavy firing in France, but when we 
pointed out that Java was still marking her weather by 
the monsoons he could not say why the sister island had 
not been similarly affected. 

"I cannot explain him,'' was his reply, "but can you 
either explain this strangeness of which I tell you?" 

We couldn't, and so we were silent while the rain beat 
in. 

The sea's kindness seemed to have gone. Our run 
along the coast of Sumatra was a trying experience. 
The weather was heavy, and there was scant comfort 
aboard. The coaling station of Sabang, off the north- 
em point of Sumatra, gave us a needed respite. 

The stage before us was the long voyage to Colombo 
into the teeth of the monsoon. Our hearts sank at the 
thought of the great waves of the Indian Ocean sweeping 




A street vendor makes a sale in Alexandria, Egypt 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 249 

across thousands of miles, lashed by that steady 
"blow," and piling into mountains. 

Many conferences were held, but at all of them the 
captain shook his head. 

"The men who know these waters are right,*' said 
he. "It can't be done. We must go back to Batavia 
and run to the Seychelles along the Line. The mon- 
soon is too much for us." 

That, however, was a long, unbroken run and we 
decided to make an attempt to reach Ceylon. 

Out from that snug harbour we went into a wild and 
grim sea. All hands clung tightly to stanchions and 
anything else which gave a comfortingly firm grip. 
The great wind rushed at us head-on, the giant seas 
charged in endless succession, each roller carrying a 
host of smaller waves on its broad shoulders. 

For four hours we plugged into it, tossing and pitch- 
ing and sliding up and down that "Himalayan" sea. 
Waves broke over us, and we made scant progress. It 
was obvious that there was no possibility of making 
Colombo. The force of the monsoon would increase 
as we journeyed west, and, battered and bruised, our 
little sea-bird would not have been able to complete the 
flight. 

The ocean had settled all our discussions and surmis- 
ings. 

A. Y. nodded, the captain took the wheel, the wind 
shrieked. There were moments of terrific rolling and 
bitter suspense as we turned broadside on to the seas, 
and then we were round and scooting back to Sabang 



250 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

with the great waves chasing after us as though they 
would snatch us back and compel us to do battle. 
^ For the first time we had admitted defeat and turned 
in our tracks. 

Singapore had not expected to see the Speejacks any 
more, but we went back to our jewelled girl; Batavia 
had not expected to see the Speejacks any more, but we 
went back to Batavia, also. 

So, after all, it was from Java that we started out in 
the freshness of the morning on our long journey across 
the Indian Ocean. 

Never had the little ship been more heavily burdened. 
There were 3,200 gallons of fuel in the tanks and 300 
cases lashed on deck, making a total of 6,200 gallons. 
Conditions aboard were always cramped, and this deck 
cargo did not add to comfort, but it was a necessity with 
3,100 miles of ocean to be crossed and doubtful weather 
ahead. Five tons of water filled the tanks, and the 
pantry was stocked with food to carry us over any 
eventuality. 

The crowd of well-wishers on the pier raised a cheer 
as we pushed out on our long journey, running on one 
engine to conserve fuel. The day was golden, and we 
gave a hoot on our siren to show that we were in the best 
of spirits. 

Aboard were three passengers. 

They were very amusing folks. There was Fleurette 
Finnigan, Peggy O'Neill, and Michael, and their antics 
were a never-ending source of amusement. Fleurette 
and Peggy were dainty ladies, and Mike was a great 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 251 

upstanding fellow — and the three were monkeys, 
presented to us by friends. 

They scampered all over the ship, running up the 
rigging with enviable agility, and playing the maddest 
pranks. 

The ladies were slightly less boisterous than Mike. 
It was his habit to stand upright and beat upon his 
hairy chest when he was annoyed. Also he would walk 
the rail when the ship was rolling heavily. Just as the 
rail swung high into the air he would let go with his 
hands and feet and there would be a shout as he dropped 
down apparently to be snatched by the sea. 

Quick as a flash his great arm would shoot out, and 
he would catch the rail neatly, and swing himself in- 
board, chattering gleefully at us. 

"Ah, sir," Louis remarked many times, "they are 
so like us — are they not? So very human!" 

Louis was the one man aboard they really trusted, 
and he would play with them for hours. Charlie, the 
Chinese cook, came next in favour. Charlie had re- 
placed Bert down in the galley, and proved a great suc- 
cess. His English was scant and he had little to say 
for himself, but his good-humour was unfailing and his 
efforts in the face of difficulties were most praiseworthy. 
It was well for Bert that he did not have to spend those 
long weeks cooped up in his torture chamber. 

We had studied the ocean meteorological charts with 
care. All the little arrows which told of winds and 
currents pointed in the direction in which we sailed, and 
we found the truth was in them. 



252 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

A strong and steady breeze — ^the Southeast Trade — 
helped us on our way, and the sea was quarterly. 
Though both wind and wave grew rather too boisterous 
at times, we were running before them, and that took 
the sting out of them. We rigged the tiny sail, and 
with a good current in our favour bowled along gayly, 
using only a gallon and a half of fuel to the mile. The 
days were slightly overcast, but pleasant, though an 
occasional sea breaking over the deck made it advisable 
to sleep below. There was too much motion for com- 
fort, but compared with the lot which would have been 
ours farther north conditions were ideal. 

Once the wind freshened to something approaching a 
gale, and with a crack and a snap the handkerchief of 
sail was torn to shreds, but we rigged another when 
the weather became normal. 

We chased the sun across the world, rotating, as it 
were, on our own axis the while. It was queer and 
uncanny, to be out there on the broad face of the waters 
in that tiny craft. The gray circle of the horizon ringed 
us about, and every turn of the screw drove her farther 
into the wilderness of the waves. 

This sensation of ours may not be captured on a 
liner — other people are responsible and you dwell in a 
floating city. We, however, took our little craft across 
every mile of foam ourselves, we were close down 
among the waves, hearing their voices day and night 
and feeling the spray on our faces. We were never 
steady for a moment, but rolled along, rolled along, 
rolled along. 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 253 

Sitting amidships one night when all the sea was 
turned to moving hills of silver by the moon, Callaghan, 
who usually led our "sing-songs/' broke into that lilting 
chanty which goes: 

"Rolling home, rolling home, 
Rolling home across the sea!" 

That expressed our feelings, and we took it up and 
shouted it, the sound of our voices ringing out strangely 
across the empty waste of ocean. We were less than a 
dozen all told on ninety-eight feet of timber driving 
across the leagues, and we recaptured something of the 
spirit which must have been in the early navigators 
when they found their ways about the world in their 
tiny craft. 

There were moments of revelation such as this, and 
the day turned to night and the night to day with 
peaceful regularity. Games, flirtations, and cards 
must be called in to fight the monotony of an ordinary 
voyage, but we needed none of these things. Watches 
to be kept and sleep to be enjoyed passed the time with 
surprising speed. "Tricks" followed close upon each 
other, and it was fascinating to handle the smooth 
spokes of the wheel with the knowledge that the lifting 
bow ahead was cleaving its way through an ocean 
which even on our charts seemed unending. 

Gradually we came to realize that there had been wis- 
dom in the old, unhonoured law forbidding pets aboard. 

The monkeys had made themselves so thoroughly at 
home that they had developed into a nuisance. They 



254 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

took to springing into the saloon and knocking the 
water-jug over or breaking the glasses, and frenzied 
engineers were usually too busy to prevent them from 
making dangerous experiments with their softly singing 
"babies/' It was not safe to leave anything about 
the deck for a moment. 

In a small ship on an ocean run conditions are trying 
on tempers and nerves. Even the minor foibles of your 
fellow men which would pass unnoticed in other circum- 
stances stand out in strong relief. You are liable to 
lose patience at the slightest provocation. 

The monkeys went too far. 

A drum-head court martial was held, and it was de- 
cided that they had to go. They had turned from pets 
into pests — we were sorry, but the fact remained. Dis- 
posing of them presented difficulties. 

"We'll have to put 'em overboard," said one. 

That, of course, was the obvious thing to do, but the 
idea did not meet with favour. After much debate 
Fleurette Finnigan, Peggy O'Neil, and Michael were 
tactfully chloroformed out of this world, and their bodies 
were committed to the deep. It was a gloomy cere- 
mony, but there was no other way. 

We lost count of dates and days of the week. The 
world of men might have been upon another planet. It 
was impossible to conjure up the picture of big cities 
noisy with life. A new flood seemed to have come upon 
the globe, blotting out the dry land. Always astern the 
log spun, and the yacht rose and fell, forging ahead and 
leaving her white trail on the waves. We yarned and 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 255 

smoked and stood our watches at wheel or engines, and 
were all alone in that universe of leaping sea and gray- 
blue sky. The memory of it lingers as a queer, event- 
less gap in the business of living. 

Only one ship was sighted on that long run — a great 
liner ploughing majestically through the waves which 
tossed us about so. We focussed our glasses upon her, 
and believed her to be the Moreton 5^3^ outward bound to 
Australia. We smiled at the thought of what the people 
aboard might be thinking of the Speejacks, so tiny, and 
seemingly so frail, going about her lawful occasions 
in the middle of the Indian Ocean. 

Far away to starboard the Chagos Group drifted by, 
low-lying islands wallowing in the sea and crowned with 
palms. Thus reassured of the fact that we had ample 
supplies of fuel for the remainder of the trip, both 
engines were started and we spurted forward like a 
runner who gets his "second wind." 

On the morning of the eighteenth day the sky-line 
was broken by the hilly shapes of the Seychelles, show- 
ing clear and green. We were not sorry, for with the 
passing of the days our world seemed to have gradually 
grown smaller. 

"Say,*' said Bill, when we were discussing the 
phenomenon, "if this craft had to go on much longer 
without a rest the salt water would shrink her into a 
dinghy!'^ 

It was only by reference to the log-book that we knew 
how many days we had been on the passage. We had 
averaged 175 miles a day, and it was greatly to the 



256 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

credit of our navigator that he had brought the yacht 
across that long sea road on a course which was practi- 
cally a straight line. We picked up the group in the 
very place and at the very hour he had predicted. 
There are easier things to do, when you are working 
with amateur helmsmen and in such a cockleshell. 

In truth, we were prepared to enjoy the Seychelles, 
and those lonely little isles in the wide ocean seemed 
very like fairyland. Ships were not frequent callers, 
and our yacht was greeted as though she had been the 
flagship of a friendly power. We anchored in the 
picturesque little harbour, and feasted our eyes on the 
tall, firm hills, on the white roads and the nodding 
palms. 

Then we tumbled into the launch which had come 
out to meet us, and ah! but it was good to feel the dry 
earth underfoot and stretch cramped legs along the 
paths. We were as schoolboys freed from lessons. 

The coloured population was an odd collection of 
peoples from Africa. They were of the typical negroid 
type, and contrasted strongly with the peoples of those 
other lands left so far behind. Again we had sailed 
into a new world. There were a number of important 
prisoners on the islands, including chiefs from the main- 
land who had been sent into exile for their own or 
their country's good. Their wives and retainers had 
accompanied them, and in the little, healthful settle- 
ment they seemed well content. 

It was the praiseworthy intention of the few white 
residents of this lonely British outpost to out-vie all 




u 



w 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 257 

our friends about the world in hospitality. In the neat 
bungalows among the palms and up in the hills we were 
entertained lavishly. They feted us with feastings and 
dancing, their homes were at our disposal, and far up in 
a cool mountain pool set in glorious vegetation we had 
such bathing as might fittingly be reserved for gods. 

It will be seen that the Seychelles met our mood with 
delightful completeness. There is every possibility 
that we would have been there still, but the summons of 
the thousands of miles ahead and the knowledge that 
the Atlantic had to be crossed before December called 
us on. The tanks were refilled with fuel — so good 
had been our crossing that we had arrived with a margin 
of 1,000 gallons — the shipment having arrived from 
Mauritius some time before we put in, and the anchor 
came up again, dripping and slimy. We knew that 
more rough weather awaited us outside, and we were 
sorry to go, but it was idle to repine. The good folk of 
the Seychelles will remember our appreciation of their 
kindness whenever the gramophone sings to them. 
They were fond of music and dancing, but lacked the de- 
vice which is the joy of all dwellers in the wilderness. 
Our gramophone which had played for us in many 
strange ports and on three oceans left us to stay with 
them. 

After shore rejoicing the sea always seemed particu- 
larly eager to snatch the Speejacks back again. 

It was rough and unpleasant outside, but we held our 
course for day upon day and presently the bow swung 
north and we were running along the east coast of 



258 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Africa. The breeze had been growing steadily, and it 
increased to a strong southerly gale which piled up 
great seas until it seemed that every following wave 
must crash down upon the tiny deck in a smother of 
water. In a single day 240 miles sUd behind us, as she 
drove along whipped by the wind and in the grip of a 
five-knot current. In the late afternoon through the 
spindrift we sighted the bold cape of Ras Hafun. The 
gale blew with redoubled fury, and a portion of the awn- 
ing carried away. The air seemed to be full of fiends 
shrieking and flapping their dark wings. There fol- 
lowed moments of wild struggling and the damage was 
repaired but it became evident that shelter was badly 
needed. 

"I have only a large-scale chart,*' said the captain, 
**but we'll see if we can find an anchorage.'' 

We ran in behind Ras Hafun. Darkness was near, 
and we sought blindly for some place where we might 
lie snug. It was a sinister, ominous inlet, the sea was 
high even in there, and the black shores were perilously 
close. Reefs might have been all about us. It would 
have been a fine thing to have lain snug that night 
and slept in peace, but there was no safety and no sleep 
for us behind Ras Hafun. 

The stubby bow of the gallant little craft turned out 
to the wild sea again. 

The night swept down, and through the gloom the 
shadows of the great waves showed, leaping with white 
plumes above us. The ship staggered and trembled as 
each wave struck her, and in the glow of the lights from 



ODD PORTS AND ACROSS AN OCEAN 259 

the wheelhouse the water about showed boiling and 
angry as the heart of a whirlpool. The decks were 
awash and sleep was out of the question on deck or 
below. 

We held tight, shivered, and sought consolation in 
the knowledge that, with luck, by the following evening 
we would He at peace off Aden. 

There was no breath to spare for talk, the night was 
full of the voices of wind and sea. 

On the stroke of midnight when he was to be relieved 
Jay shouted from the wheelhouse, and the yacht veered 
strangely. 

The captain was beside him in a moment, and all 
hands used dark words in that dark night off the dark 
continent. 

The engine-room signal tinkled. 

"We'll have to rig the emergency tiller — ^the steering 
cable carried away!" 

The hand tiller was lashed aft for such eventualities 
as this. For the second time on the trip it was un- 
shipped and rigged — no easy task with the ship rolling 
in a manner past belief as she lay in the trough of the 
seas. 

The rain beat in, the wind yelled, and lifting the 
entire tops off waves flung them in-board. 

The compass was carried aft and set on the hatch 
and at slow speed we crept ahead, Rogers and Jay, 
soaked to the skin, holding her on her course as well as 
they could and in imminent peril of being swept over- 
board. 



260 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Meanwhile the rest discovered the break in the chain, 
and, also greatly handicapped by the weather, suc- 
ceeded in repairing it. Time lagged by, no one taking 
account of it, but when we were free to consider it 
again we were surprised to discover that what had 
seemed like hours had only been a matter of minutes. 
The decks were awash, and all hands were wet and 
cold, but the Speejacks staggered on undaunted. 

The captain took a star sight, and was relieved to 
discover that in spite of the odds against us we were still' 
on our course. 

The gale seemed to realize that though we were 
small we were a hard nut to crack, and its efforts to 
smash us to pieces lost some of their enthusiasm. The 
dawn revealed Cape Guardafui on the port bow, and 
by the time the sun rose low above the sands the long 
voyage ended and the yacht slept at anchor off sun- 
baked, arid Aden, at the entrance to the Red Sea. 

People will tell you that Aden is the last port in the 
world. It is dirty, it is sinful, it is a monotone of 
rock and sand, but there came to it that evening sea- 
stained voyagers who looked upon it with kind and 
uncritical eyes as the ** haven where they would be." 




A vista on one of the narrow old streets of Cairo. 




A bit of the ornate interior of Mohammed Ali's Mosque at Cairo. 




Another interior view of Mohammed Ali's Mosque at Cairo. 



CHAPTER XVI 

Mediterranean Days, a Bullfighty and the Last Ocean 

A YACHTING cruise in the Mediterranean is an ex- 
perience many have sighed for, and, in truth, there are 
wonder and interest in plenty in the lands which frame 
the sea where history was bom. But, after her long 
wanderings, the Speejacks seemed to have returned to 
home waters again. She was back on the tourists* 
ways, and our long wandering in seas less travelled 
makes it well that the story of these latter days should 
be told more briefly. 

We saw what all the world sees along the Mediterra- 
nean, and only the unusual memories shall be set down 
here. 

Aden, sitting sizzling in the sun, did not seem as 
much like Hades as reports had suggested. True, there 
had been no rain for seven years, its background was 
arid sand and rock and the parched air could not be 
described as bracing, but here, as everywhere, there 
were kindly, hospitable folk. 

The people of this "last port for lost souls" — which is 
one of its most polite names — seemed like their brothers 
elsewhere, and just as happy. They played tennis and 
football, lived in comfortable homes, and though few 
of them professed to love the place, circumstances had 
set them there and they made the best of it. We saw 

261 



262 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

an Arab wedding, and the ancient tanks in which 
Aden's stock of water from the hills was stored, and 
down the long, dusty street lumbered strings of camels 
bringing in the goods of Arabia through deserts in which 
Bedouin marauders roamed. We were told that it 
would not be safe for a white man to journey alone nine 
miles out into that waste — and here were we consider- 
ing ourselves back in the heart of civilization again. 

The Red Sea looked promising on the charts. 

" It should be just like a big lake," said Bumey, after 
a glance at its portrait as the course was plotted in the 
wheelhouse. The run of 1,400 miles was regarded with- 
out apprehension, beyond a fear that it would be warm. 

It was warm, and also — which was hardly fair — very 
rough. 

The Speejacks left Aden at 4 o'clock, and midnight 
found her staggering into one of the most uncomfortable 
seas experienced on the whole trip. The wind blew 
from the north with vicious fury, and flung up short, 
sharp waves which battered and shook the yacht. She 
laboured in them as she never had in the honest storms 
of wider seas. Day followed day in perpetual con- 
flict. 

Despite the strong headwind the air was as hot as 
that of an oven. It laid dry hands of fever on the skin 
and parched and burned. The deck temperature, 
imder the double awnings, hngered about 114 degrees, 
and through hot darkness and fiery sunshine the night- 
mare went on. 

Once Jean essayed to take the wheel for an hour, but 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 263 

conditions were too trying and in a few minutes she 
fainted. 

The sun glowed Hke a ball of molten brass, and the 
leaden waves flung back its rays. 

The Red Sea is a great trade route, but it is no place 
in which to be stranded, as its barren shores are infested 
with tribes hungry for plunder. The petrol consump- 
tion was heavier than at any other stage of the trip, 
and, knowing the reputation of the coasts on either 
hand, it seemed poor policy to run short of fuel. Port 
Sudan, on the African side, offered a chance to replenish 
supplies and enjoy a respite from the burning gale. 

But Port Sudan is not a place in which to enjoy a 
respite — or anything else. It was a tiny place of Arabs, 
sand, sorrow, and dust, and it had sprung up about the 
terminus of the line which connects the Sudan with the 
sea. Faced by its cheerless monotony the gale outside 
seemed preferable, and, having taken fuel aboard, the 
Speejacks went out again to that sea of sorrow. 

Big liners swept by — one ran over to the strange little 
craft wallowing along, thinking she must be in distress 
— and the passengers on those high decks were regarded 
with envy. The days were sun-baked skeletons in 
which the hours gleamed like dry, white ribs, and even 
in the night the demons of the gale seemed to have 
stolen away all the good moisture and relief which the 
stars should bring. 

But let the Red Sea be forgotten. The followers of 
Moses were fortunate to have had it made dry for them. 

Those 1,400 miles occupied eleven days and burned 



264 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

up 4,700 gallons of gasoline and nearly as much pa- 
tience, i 

With a pilot in charge she stole through the Suez 
Canal, that straight, wide ditch cut through the sand 
which offered such a contrast to the even greater feat 
of Panama. There were no locks here, but a silver, 
sluggish path of water along which the Speejacks swam 
like a white water-beetle. 

We were on the steamer ways again with a vengeance, 
and at Port Said the yacht seemed to be lost amid the 
mass of shipping. The keen-eyed Arabs and Egyptians 
did not overlook her, however. They swarmed out 
in their boats, offering for sale all the treasures of the 
East (made in Birmingham). 

"Genuine" scarabs were going cheap, along with 
boxes made from wood taken from the Mount of Olives 
— everything being accompanied by the personal word 
of honour of hawk-nosed gentlemen that their authen- 
ticity was above question. 

Port Said is the grand climax and the last splendid lie 
of the sack of the gentle tourist by the wily East. 

"My name Mr. McPherson, me Irishman, master, 
sahib, colonel! Me very poor; no fathers, no mothers, 
Miss Nightingale ! ' * 

That is the song of Port Said. 

The yacht left for Alexandria while the party paid a 
flying visit to Cairo. Egypt, the wise and the ancient, 
was fascinating but Mr. Baedeker has written about all 
the things seen in those brief days. Suffice it to say 
that Mr. Baedeker, not having travelled on the Spee- 




A street in the sparsely populated section of Cairo, on the outskirts 

of the city. 






MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 265 

jacksy may not be aware that there is one motion worse 
than that of a camel in a hurry. 

The widening belt of sea astern let down a curtain of 
cool and quiet between the yacht and Egypt, and with 
the last glimpse of the brown sails of the native craft 
the East was lost as the yacht drove on around the 
world. 

At the moment, however, she was not driving very 
fast. These inland seas were less kind than the noble 
oceans. The Mediterranean met the yacht with un- 
ceasing blows — short, fierce uppercuts — and in four 
days only 300 miles showed on the log. The storm 
grew worse, and the Island of Crete offering shelter, an 
anchorage was sought where, beneath the shadow of 
bold cliffs, the tired sea-bird lay snugly. 

Ashore life was still in the primitive. The islanders 
were simple folk who watched their flocks and wove 
the wool with hand looms. There was good partridge 
shooting, but the haven was not exciting otherwise, and 
nobody was sorry to push on after three days. 

The repentant sea smiled beneath the kisses of the 
sun. Green islands floated on it, with little villages 
sleeping in the folds of the hills beneath the deep tones 
of the olive groves. It was a wonderful run to Piraeus, 
the port of Athens. The harbour was in a state of tur- 
moil, for while the "navy" — two uncared-for craft of 
the vintage of '42 — stood guard refugees from Smyrna 
poured in, fleeing from the conquering Turk. 

The waterfront and the streets presented tragic pic- 
tures at every step. They were thronged with pitiful 



266 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

figures, who stood numb and dumb with sorrow, or ges- 
ticulated and mourned with low cries for all that they 
had lost. There were children who had become sepa- 
rated from their parents, there were husbands who had 
lost their wives, there were white-faced mothers sitting 
listless, utterly weary and broken. Some had bundles 
containing all their worldly goods — and some had noth- 
ing. The town was a camp of woe garrisoned by 
400,000 homeless ones. 

As the yacht lay at anchor rusted tramps staggered 
by in constant procession heavy-laden with their freight 
of human souls. 

The hungry wept. 

Wonderful work was being done by the American 
relief organization, but though the cafes were crowded 
with prosperous citizens little local effort was made on 
behalf of the sufferers. 

" It is better to wait,'' explained one. "America will 
aid them!" 

Others expressed the same view with the same de- 
lightful candour, and one was set wondering on the 
charity which does not begin at home. 

A Greek subject of British descent who had owned a 
house stocked with art treasures in Smyrna dined with 
A. Y. one evening. On the night the Turks entered 
the town he had returned to his home and found it 
occupied by the invaders. They invited him to walk 
upstairs and take a look round. 

"But," he explained, "they looked like spiders and 
I felt like the fly. I do not think I should ever have 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 267 

come down again. I left my home in their hands, 
taking nothing from it save my overcoat!'* 

The cheerfulness of this cultured man — he was an 
Oxford graduate — made a strong impression. He did 
not know what had happened to his home or his busi- 
ness, but he smiled and explained philosophically that 
war meant such things. 

Despite all the country's trials, the cost of living in 
Greece was very low. A. Y.'s dinner party for seven, 
including champagne, only cost the equivalent of $3.86. 
Provisions, gasoline, and everything else were corre- 
spondingly low in price when you dealt in dollars. 
Greece was the cheapest country visited. 

The revolution happened during the stay of the 
SpeejackSy but it was hard for strangers to believe that 
it had taken place. Groups of soldiery made their 
appearance, there was a little cheering, but the usual 
life went on undisturbed. The abdication of Constan- 
tine caused no excitement. A. Y. and Jay seemed to 
be more interested than most. They waited patiently 
for hours to secure a picture of his departure from his 
summer palace, but the light went before the dethroned 
king chose to do so. 

Old Athens and the turmoil of new Athens were in- 
teresting and afforded endless scope for the cinematog- 
rapher, but Old Man Schedule cried, "Move on!'' 

Obediently, the engines awakened and by way of 
the Corinth Canal the Speejacks headed for Italy. Big 
ships seldom use this route, for between the sheer 
walls of the canal the currents are dangerous, but the 



268 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

little yacht paid no heed to such reports. Nero started 
to hew that four-mile channel through the solid rock 
in A. D. 67, but he gave up the task and it was not 
until 1800 years later that the narrow lane of water 
flowed across the Greek peninsula. 

At 5 o'clock on the following morning came a grinding 
crash, which woke all hands. It was a sound that had 
been heard aboard before. It signalled trouble. Louis 
had been at the wheel, and Louis could be trusted to 
be on his course. The charts showed rocks everywhere, 
and there were moments of consternation. She seemed 
to have struck hard, and there was fear in every heart 
that, after coming so far, the wanderings of the little 
craft were over. 

There was no time for musing, however, and all was 
activity. A sounding taken astern and at the bow re- 
vealed a miracle. Amid all the reefs the Speejacks 
had contrived to go agroimd on a sandbank. The en- 
gines were set astern and after some breathless mo- 
ments she slipped back into deep water again not 
one whit the worse. It was another example of Spee- 
jacks luck. She might well have struck anywhere, for 
it was discovered later that owing to magnetic attrac- 
tion the compass was no less than two points out — and 
two points is an appalling deviation. 

The Adriatic was blue and wonderful, and by way of 
Sicily the yacht came to Naples, passing Scylla and 
Charybdis, where, though we scanned the rocks, there 
was no sign of any monster sucking in the sea three 
times a day, or of its mate with six heads and twelve 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 269 

feet and the friendly habit of snatching mariners from 
passing ships. Ulysses was more favoured than we 
were. 

Walking in Naples, A. Y. observed a 40 h. p. Fiat 
for sale for a fabulous sum when stated in hra but at 
a bargain price when you bought the lira with dollars. 
He purchased it on the condition that it should be 
ready for the road with a chauffeur in charge by 4 p. m. 
on the morrow. The astonished Latin manager raised 
his hands in blank amaze at the "madness of the Amer- 
ican'* but the car was delivered, and while the yacht 
proceeded to Marseilles, A. Y., Jean, and Jay went by 
road through Rome, Florence, and Genoa and thence 
to the Riviera. It was a delightful trip, but it passes 
unchronicled save for the story of Speejacks luck at 
Monte Carlo. 

A. Y. did the wagering and as he sat at the tables 
losing steadily people drifted away from him. A kindly 
English lady advised him not to woo fortune further. 

Such a run of ill-fortune could not continue, and he 
kept on increasing his bets on 35 and 26 — ^the latter 
finding favour because the Standard Oil Company's 
main office is at 26 Broadway. 

Twenty-six won, and a pile of francs came to him. 
The crowd flocked back as he distributed all the money 
equally between the two figures. Twenty-six repeated ! 
The mountain of notes was split as before and he be- 
came a centre of attraction. 

"Come quickly," cried an excited spectator to Jean, 
"your husband breaks the bank!" 



270 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

"Please give me that little *fish' !" sighed a beauteous 
damsel, pointing to a 50-franc note, but A. Y., absorbed 
in the game, referred her to his wife, and she did not 
press the claim. 

Thirty-five won! 

At that psychological moment Mr. A. Y. Gowen of 
Chicago decided he had had enough, and with his 
pockets bulging with notes returned to his hotel, where 
the party spent a happy hour counting up the spoils. 
He had won enough to pay for the car and the trip 
through Italy and still have a margin. But, being a 
married man, the margin soon vanished. Jean went 
to Paris and sauntered along the Rue de la Paix! 

It was the old story of our games of poker in the 
little saloon at the other end of the world — but upon a 
larger scale. There was consolation in the thought 
that it would have been worse if we had had a roulette 
wheel on the Speejacks. 

The road had proved delightful after the long months 
at sea, and on arrival at Marseilles the intention was to 
go on to Gibraltar. A glimpse of the Spanish roads 
killed that. They were impassable and impossible. A 
gentleman had just come through, but he was an in- 
genious gentleman and he had made the journey for a 
bet. He was accompanied by another light car in 
which a mule rode in state. The mule's task was to 
help both cars over the worst stretches. As there was 
not much room in the Fiat for a mule the car was 
shipped to America, and the Speejacks was rejoined. 

Down the coast of Spain the yacht ran, and dis- 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 271 

covered that although the world doesn't hear much of 
Barcelona it was a very fine city and the richest and 
most lively in Spain. Its wide avenues bright with 
the rows of flower-sellers and arched above with trees; 
its beautiful women; its marriage market where at 
noonday mothers walked with their daughters that 
eligible young men might note their charms; its fine 
shops — these things made it a Paris in miniature with 
an added note of colour. 

But Barcelona is remembered above all else for the 
bullfight. 

Jean and A. Y. were made guests of honour, and Jay 
was given special privileges as a result of which he se- 
cured a film record of the occasion which is probably 
unique. 

The spectacle was a queer pattern of blood and gold, 
of thrills and disgust, of bravery and butchery. While 
23,000 people yelled themselves hoarse with delight, 
the Americans, more accustomed to the less blood- 
stained sport of baseball, sat bewildered and a little sick. 

But it was a good example of the sport of a nation, 
and the manner of it shall be told. 

They kill six bulls — six great, upstanding bulls spe- 
cially bred for the purpose — in Barcelona every Sunday, 
and there is seldom a vacant seat in the vast amphi- 
theatre. To mark the gala occasion eight bulls were 
killed that day. 

Before proceedings began the matadores were pre- 
sented to the Speejacks party. The most notable was 
Del Monte, idol of Barcelona, known throughout Spain 



272 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

for his courage and skill. He was a little bit of a man, 
still in his twenties, and keen-eyed and dapper. He 
moved swiftly and with supple grace, and his steps were 
as light and sure as those of a cat. His hands were 
brown and steady. In his short jacket and knee 
breeches of satin richly embroidered with gold and 
silver, silk stockings and light shoes, his hair worn in a 
short pig-tail which is the distinguishing mark of his 
profession, he might have stepped straight from a ro- 
mance by Ibaiiez. 

The ring was cleared and the President signed for 
proceedings to begin. 

There was a blare of trumpets, and the gates were 
flung wide. As the crowd applauded, the matadores, 
followed by their staffs of picadores, chulos, and ban- 
derilleros, paraded round the ring. They made bows 
to the President and his guests and to the assemblage 
at large, and as they withdrew the first bull — kept in 
the darkness for hours and already taunted into a state 
of madness — charged into the ring. 
1 The picadores were in position. They were in 
yellow, and their legs were protected by armour. Their 
task was not an enviable one, and we were told that 
they were made drunk before they were sent to execute 
it, so that they were content although they were poorly 
paid and seemed to have the most dangerous and un- 
pleasant part to play. 

Mounted on the sorriest old hacks, which had come 
to the end of their working days and were doomed to 
death, the picadores rode about the bull, thrusting at 




Mrs. Gowen on a "desert taxi" near the Pyramids. 
































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o 

X! 

u 

CO 



g 

CD 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 273 

him with short pikes, and maddening him to frenzy. 
When he charged they made no attempt to escape, 
but let him gore the unfortunate, bUnd-folded horses. 
The more horses a bull killed the better he was rated as 
a fighter, but this was the part which made foreigners 
feel most nauseated. 

The great horns stabbed and thrust at the helpless 
crocks, and when the beasts went down the riders lay 
still so that the bull confined his attention to the strug- 
gling animal, and was ultimately drawn away by other 
picadores to start a new attack. 

The bull was maddened by the blood, and so, it 
seemed, was the crowd. The great, sun-baked arena 
buzzed with excitement as the infuriated animal plunged 
to and fro in its blood lust. 

The picadores gave place to the banderilleros, who 
were on foot and who tormented the beast by flinging 
darts eighteen inches in length into its shoulders. 

A great, sobbing cry of delight went up from the 
crowd as Del Monte entered. He walked across the 
ring to a position before the President, and in the formal 
phrases of custom announced that he would kill this 
bull for the American lady. He sent his hat and gor- 
geous scarlet cloak up to her, and tradition lays down 
that should he fall in the conflict the articles are re- 
tained by the recipient, but if he conquers both are 
returned to him, the hat being filled with money. 

The fight turned into a personal battle between the 
bull and the dapper figure. Del Monte, keen and 
alert, waved his red cape at the animal which charged 



274 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

down upon him, an avalanche of living death. Del 
Monte did not appear to move. He swayed back on 
his heels ever so slightly, like a reed blown by a passing 
wind, and his lips smiled coolly. The horns, all stained 
with blood, seemed to graze him, but he had judged his 
position with perfect accuracy. 

So it went on, a conflict between raging, uncon- 
trolled brute force and coolness, agility, and nerve. 
The small figure seemed to dance before the lumbering 
animal, now here, now there, but never flustered or 
excited. It was as though a child played with a levia- 
than — a cat-like step aside at the last breath and death 
was avoided by a matter of inches. 

All the time the crowd yelled encouragement to man 
and beast, urging each to fresh attacks and fresh daring. 
They loved the sight, and drank in every movement 
with keen appreciation. 

The bull grew weary at last, and with wondrous skill 
Del Monte manoeuvred so that he had the animal im- 
mediately before the President's place. Then he took 
a short, broad sword from an attendant and concealing 
it behind the cape waited calmly while the bull charged 
down for the last time. 

He seemed literally to fling himself between those 
terrible horns, and quick as light the blade flashed out, 
striking over the head into the neck and down to the 
heart. It was a blow requiring the steadiest of hands 
and nerves and much training. In that critical moment 
it was necessary to find the exact target or meet death. 
Del Monte's blow went home, neatly and with precision, 



MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 275 

and he stepped gracefully aside. The bull halted in 
its tracks, stood trembling for a second, and went down 
in a crumpled heap. 

The fight was over, and the throng gave their homage 
to the conqueror. They shouted themselves hoarse, 
women flung him kisses, men tossed money and hats 
into the ring, and the tiny figure, as little disturbed by 
the tremendous ovation as by the conflict, smiled and 
bowed. 

Jean sent his hat filled with the reward spinning down 
to him in the prescribed fashion, and he picked it up 
and saluted her. An attendant collected his cloak. 
Men and horses entered the ring and drew away the 
bodies of bull and horses, hiding the blood beneath a 
blanket of sand. The next fight began. 

The sun blazing down seemed to have lit wild fires 
in the hearts of the Spanish crowd so that this spectacle 
of blood and killing was the one thing their hearts de- 
sired. The dust rose from the arena, hoarse voices 
cried encouragement, trumpets sounded, and Spain en- 
joyed herself in her own way. 

There was an untoward climax to one battle. The 
matador noticed Jay grinding away at his camera and 
decided to play for him. He worked the bull into 
position before the machine, and played with it in a 
manner which made even the habitues gasp. He took 
amazing risks, and then knelt before it, every bit of him 
a taunt. The bull charged down, and the matador's 
movement was a fraction of a second too late. The 
great head swept him over and the horns drove at him. 



276 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

He was badly gored before the beast could be drawn 
off. The man escaped with severe injuries, and he 
certainly provided a remarkable thrill for the screen. 

The sun was sinking low before the last bull was des- 
patched, and the crowd, chattering excitedly, flocked 
homeward after a fine aftemoon^s sport to their way 
of thinking. The Anglo-Saxons, while full of admiration 
for the nerve and science of the matadores and the rest 
of that picturesque company, were saddened by the 
memory of the blood of beasts and men mingling with 
the sand. 

From Barcelona the yacht ran on to the other gate- 
way of the Mediterranean, where that great rock, Gi- 
braltar, with its terraced galleries of guns, stands guard. 
British "Tommies," sailors of the navies of Britain and 
America, tourists. Moors, Spaniards, Arabs, and a 
dozen other races rubbed shoulders in its crowded 
streets. The cruiser Pittsburgh, under Admiral Long, 
was in port and there was much entertaining between 
the two ships which flew "Old Glory." 

A new atmosphere was evident aboard when the 
Speejacks danced out to the first waves of the Atlantic. 
"Home!" the engines sang, "Home!" The ocean — 
the crossing of which in a 64-ton yacht might have been 
regarded in other circumstances as an experience — ^was 
nothing but a span of water flung between Europe and 
America for the special purpose of taking the Speejacks 
— home! 

"Say," said Bill to Jack, "let those babies of yours 
turn over just as fast as they want to!" 




The majestic entrance to the bull fight arena at Barcelona. 






i 




c/) 
'a; 






MEDITERRANEAN DAYS 277 

"Boy," Jack answered, "FU say they don*t need 
any telling that we're getting home!" 

But the ocean was not in the mood to help us, and 
buffeted the little craft badly, so that the 700-mile run 
down the west coast of Africa took five days instead of 
three, as a result of which the American papers again 
announced the Speejacks lost at sea. 

Her arrival at the Canary Islands disproved the story. 
The group has a well-earned reputation for beauty and 
the people were delightful, but the cry was Home! 

The Atlantic, having shown its strength, was content 
to let the Speejacks skurry on. Wind and waves ceased 
their threats for the 1,500-mile run to Cape Verde Is- 
lands which was only just, since we were going a long 
way round to avoid the worst of the gales. The barren 
coaling station had no charm at the moment. Six 
thousand gallons of gasoline were put aboard, and as 
this meant carrying between twelve and fifteen tons 
on the deck of a 64-tonner it will be understood that 
joss-sticks were burnt at the shrine of Speejacks luck for 
calm weather. A gale with such a deck cargo would 
have been a serious matter. 

The luck held as usual, and the Atlantic was as mild 
as a dove. The 2,600 miles to Porto Rico were covered 
in twelve days, and though the Ancient Mariners would 
have had us believe that such a thing was impossible, 
conditions were perfect. Jean sewed and wrote letters, 
and all hands revelled in the good run the while they 
talked of home. The sea-bird became a homing pigeon, 
fluttering swiftly back to its cote. 



278 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Before leaving Cape Verde the remainder of the 
whiskey stocks had been given away, for there was a 
general desire not to have the homecoming held up by 
any debate with officials. Ten days out, however, an- 
other case was discovered, and the bulk of it was con- 
signed to the deep amid a hushed silence. There was 
something tremendously saddening in this sea burial 
of John Barleycorn, and as the case bobbed away astern 
hopes were expressed that currents might carry it to 
some unfortunate castaway upon a desert island who 
would appreciate it fully. 

At San Juan on beautiful Porto Rico the pleasant 
business of coming home began. It was the first Amer- 
ican territory the yacht had touched since leaving Pago 
Pago long months before, and a warm welcome was 
extended to her. Scores of letters and telegrams told 
of friends eagerly expecting her return, and though the 
charms of the Indies urged a longer stay the hospi- 
tality of the people could only be enjoyed for a few 
days. 

Home! sang the engines, Home! 



CHAPTER XVII 

Home Again 

Sixteen months before, Miami^s lights had winked 
au revoir to the Speejacks, and now, with the long trick 
nearly over, it was into Miami she flitted again, lifting 
to the ground swell gayly, and quite spick-and-span for 
all her buffeting about the seven seas. 

Yarning in the little saloon while the yacht swung at 
anchor on the glassy waters of a New Guinea harbour 
many months before and across the world, it had been 
decided that Thanksgiving Day dinner would be eaten 
in America, and it was on Thanksgiving Day that the 
Speejacks came home. This, in itself, was an achieve- 
ment, for — after the human beings — there is nobody 
more difficult to handle on a yacht than Old Man 
Schedule. The Speejacks held to time-table with re- 
markable success. 

At Gibraltar, with 5,000 miles of the Atlantic ahead, 
A. Y. had cabled to a friend, Mr. Carl G. Fisher of 
Miami, offering to bet him that the Speejacks would 
arrive at the Florida resort on Thanksgiving Day within 
an hour of 10 A. M. He also cabled to New York that 
she would be alongside there at 11 A. m. on December 
11. At Porto Rico a letter was received from Mr. Fisher 
assuring A. Y. and the yacht of the heartiest of wel- 
comes, but omitting to take up the bet. 

279 



280 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Before sailing from the Indies, A. Y., feeling lyrical 
with joy at the thought of Home, cabled again: 

"Have turkey, barber, bath and band 
Ready for us when we land 
Thanksgiving Mom at ten o'clock!" 

It seemed a trifle too definite with the thousand miles 
of sea between, but only rank misfortune prevented the 
accomplishment of the feat. Thick weather wrapped 
the little craft about, and she battled with the heavy 
seas for five days. The log was fouled by driftwood 
and did not register the run. The result was that on 
the appointed morning she was off the coast of Florida, 
but somewhat out of position. By the time it had 
cleared sufficiently to run in and take bearings she had 
overshot the mark and had to turn back on her tracks, 
plugging into the Gulf Stream. Had it not been for 
this she would have arrived well ahead of time for, even 
as it was, she was berthed at 11.15. If the bet had 
been taken up, Speejacks luck, for once, would have 
been out of commission, but the bet was not made, so, 
in that way the luck held. 

Among the fleet of welcoming craft was the Shadow F. 
with Commodore Fisher aboard. He, it seemed, had 
not been prepared to bet against A. Y. — he knew him 
— ^but had made a considerable wager that the arrival 
would be punctual. Through an ill chance, he lost by 
fifteen minutes. 

Escorted in by all the cruisers and yachts of the 
Southern harbour, the Speejacks came to Flamingo 



HOME AGAIN 281 

Dock. Sirens, whistles, and cheers; fluttering bunting 
and waving handkerchiefs gave a regal welcome. A. Y. 
and Jean were overwhelmed by that reception. They 
were snowed under with telegrams and letters and 
flowers. Battalions of reporters captured the ship and 
friends poured aboard in waves which a typhoon might 
have envied. There were handshakes and interviews 
and photographs. It was dazing and bewildering after 
the long run at sea and the months of comparative 
solitude. 

Looking at the clean and dapper little craft, people 
could hardly believe that the Speejacks had been ** right 
round." It was a triumph of modem shipbuilding that 
a motor boat should come through such a testing and 
look no worse than if she had been on a run to the 
West Indies. Her cruise had lifted the power boat from 
a useful toy to a place among the real ships of the world. 

But all this has been said in the newspapers — ^they 
said it on their front pages with huge headlines, and 
they told the story of the trip in brief again and again. 
Jean became the "dauntless girl," A. Y. the "modem 
Columbus." Dictionaries were searched for adjectives. 
It was an exciting, amazing homecoming, and Thanks- 
giving Day dinner, 1922, had a real meaning for the 
complement of the Speejacks, 

There remained the thousand-mile mn to New York, 
and, with our wake girdling the world, it scarcely seemed 
worth putting the log over for such a trifle. On this 
occasion, despite heavy seas and bitter weather, the 
boast of our power to arrive on time was justified. 



282 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

Eleven o'clock on December 11th had been named, 
and at that hour to the moment the Speejacks was 
alongside and the last rope had been made fast. 

The reception at New York echoed and multiplied 
that of Miami. In far waters those who had been 
aboard the yacht throughout had often conjured up 
that return, but they had never anticipated such en- 
thusiasm. A. Y. and Jean, Ira J. Ingraham, the 
cinematographer. Jack Lewis, chief engineer, and Bill 
Soulby, steward, were the only veterans remaining of 
those who had sailed from New York sixteen months 
before. The rest had dropped off at ports along the 
way, and there had been a score of other changes. 

The siren tooted joyously, the engines ceased their 
purr and the task was accompHshed. 

"Fineesh!" said Louis. 

There was a moment's hush aboard, and though the 
envious onlookers might not have believed it, all hands, 
down to the Chinese cook who had the trip back to 
Singapore before him, breathed a sigh of relief. 

This sensation was expressed with candour to the 
press. 

"I wouldn't do it again for a king's ransom," said 
A. Y., ''and I wouldn't have missed it for anything in 
the world!" 

Jean endorsed the statement with warmth. Jay 
turned his crank for the last time aboard and nodded in 
assent, though he had taken 93,000 feet of film which 
had been sent home to be developed and he was happy 
in the knowledge that only 300 feet had been spoiled. 



HOME AGAIN 283 

Listeners smiled politely, but did not believe. 

Yet the truth had been spoken. The trip had been 
a wonderful experience: we had gone where we willed in 
the little-known corners of the world — our minds were 
soaked with colour and crammed with memories — ^but 
to be set against these things were many trials and 
tribulations, discomforts and perils. They have not 
been dwelt upon unnecessarily here, lest it should be 
thought that we were trying to pose as martyrs and to 
"colour" the tale of our adventure, but it may be said 
with all frankness that such an undertaking is not a 
picnic. A cruise round the world in a small boat is a 
test of grit and perseverance and luck, even as it is a 
test of the boat herself. 

Man was never meant to dwell for a year and a half 
in a world measuring 98 feet by 16 feet, and if he sets 
out to do so he must be prepared to pay a price for the 
happy memories which will be his reward for the fool- 
hardiness. 

The total mileage covered was over 34,000, and the 
petrol consumed amounted to 73,000 gallons at prices 
ranging from 31 cents up to $1.24 in places where ship- 
ments had to be sent specially by schooners from ports 
thousands of miles away. I have often been asked 
what such a trip would cost, but not being accustomed 
to thinking in thousands I merely shake my head. 

I put the question to A. Y. 

"How much did it cost?" I asked. 

He looked thoughtful and a little sad. 

"Why go into that?" he replied. "Tell them that it 



284 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

costs a good deal more than they'd think — and a great 
deal more than I expected/* 

To set out to mention details of the manner in which 
the various fittings and parts stood the strain would be 
to turn these last pages into an advertising catalogue. 
Suffice to say that in every respect the yacht seemed to 
be in as good condition when she sailed into New York 
as she was when she sailed out. Her heart — ^the twin 
motors — ^had done wonders. In all the months they 
had driven us along they had never missed, and beyond 
scraping the carbon and grinding the valves they had 
not been touched. Replacement costs on them made 
up a grand total of 15 cents — for one hard leather 
washer! 

Well, there she lay alongside the New York Yacht 
Club's dock with three ocean crossings behind her. 
The flag fluttered down. It was over. 

Among the most precious things aboard her was the 
Visitors' Book, which contained the names of good- 
hearted, generous, hospitable folk in a hundred comers 
of the world. To glance through it was to conjure up 
face after face, well remembered and much esteemed. 
If the trip had done nothing else for us it had taught us 
that the world is full of friends, and their acquaintance 
was a more precious thing than all the spears and gods 
and carvings and all else besides which we brought home 
with us. 

Looking back over the sea-tracks of the Speejacks 
from a quiet room where the noises of the city are faintly 
heard, they already seem dear, dim, and dreamlike. 



HOME AGAIN 285 

It is hard to believe that those days of blazing sunshine 
and nights of silvered ocean were ever shown on a real 
calendar. The tricks on the wheel in the warm heart 
of the tropic midnight, dawns breaking over islands only 
mentioned vaguely on the charts, green waves curling 
tall to swoop down and fling us into high heaven, the 
throbbing drums of cannibal peoples and the sudden 
white smother of foam on the reef that should not have 
been there — ^these things are set in the memory as 
spray-jewelled, romantic pages recalled from a boy's 
adventure book. 

Surely, we respectable citizens in tweed suits could 
never have been shaven-headed, khaki-clad, sunburned 
wanderers about the magic seas which wash The Line? 

Many said it couldn't be done, and Ancient Mariners 
in a hundred ports shook their heads over us and 
mourned to think of bright young lives sacrificed on 
such foolishness, but the anchor came up — whether it 
was typhoon, hurricane, or mere gale which shouted 
threats — and while the Mariner was still muttering his 
warnings we were bucking out into it. The plans 
made in New York when the trip seemed a simple thing 
had been adhered to. 

I don't expect another motor boat party to complete a 
world cruise in the immediate future — though they may 
start out. Even if they had what we had — as staunch 
a Httle craft as ever sailed, able navigators, and a 
complement as good-spirited as any — they might lack 
the one essential on which our success rested. 

They might lack luck — and it's luck you need when 



286 SEA-TRACKS OF THE SPEEJACKS 

the oceans are wide and the craft is small, when the seas 
are thick with uncharted reefs and the shores are the 
homes of savages. 

We were happy and we were miserable, we were 
thrilled and we were weary — ^but above all we were 
lucky. That was our fortune. Without it there 
would have been no log of the Speejacks to write. 



THE END 




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